


And I For Him

by Dementian



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Fix-It, Ghosts, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post S6 E8, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-13
Updated: 2016-07-24
Packaged: 2018-05-13 18:53:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 24
Words: 498,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5713354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dementian/pseuds/Dementian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Overcoming suicidal urges and burdened by internalized guilt, Thomas Barrow is not an easy man to love... but Tom Branson loves hard. Meanwhile Charles Carson must re-evaluate a relationship he'd always given up for lost. </p><p>Post S6 E8 work, an attempt to fix the mess Jullian Fellowes made.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Rattle Rattle Roll

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote back around the time that Episode 8 aired in Great Britain that I was going to be writing this fic. It's taken me a while to realize what direction I wanted to take her in. I debated heavily on how to help Thomas grow out of his funk and blossom into the butterfly he always was. I hope that everyone enjoys this, as it will include the majority of all characters and forces Thomas to _work on his shitty behavior_. For which you can thank Tom Branson. 
> 
>  
> 
> **This opening chapter does reference to the suicide attempt. If that upsets you please be aware it is heavily included!**

It had been a long time coming, and that was all he knew.

It had begun with his father, with the constant berating and judgement that left him hollow and afraid to ask for help. It had grown over the years as his father morphed into the figure of Carson, Bates, Lord Grantham, and any older male that tried to tell him they knew better. It had transformed into botched attempts at poor relationships, men that were no good for him and men that did not know him. Men that wanted one thing and one thing only, men that left before the sun rose and found Thomas alone in an empty bed. Men that schemed against unsuspecting ladies of the gentry and preyed on their foolish notions of novel like romance. Men that burned love letters in fireplaces. Men that were too lost and weak to get off their knees (despite how Thomas loved them so). Men that wanted to scale the ladder without getting their knees dirty. Men that flirted because it suited them, and fled because it suited them more. It had finally emerged on the other side of several unsuccessful love affairs as a desperate desire to change. A determination to become a different man. That too, like everything else in his life, had failed.

 _“Fashion as good a life as you’re able.”_ Dr. Clarkson had advised.

So he’d tried again.

In a way it had been a breath of fresh air to find a confidant in Baxter. Unlike O’Brien, she did not hide her feelings in the prayer that those around her would assume she had none. In youth Baxter had been loving and considerate. As an adult, she was still the same. Thomas didn’t understand how it was possible after she’d been denied in love and jailed for her dreams of a better life… but still, Baxter persisted. In a way it pissed him off even more. How dare she be so god-damn-goody-gumdrops when he was slowly rotting away and dying. If he was the cavity, falling in on himself, she was the sugar bringing him down. Andy had only been worse… a true and honest attempt at goodness and sincerity that ended up tainted by everyone in the house. Thomas felt the eyes of the staff on him where ever he went, even when he was alone in his room. Their words chased him like jackals after game:

_Child Molester_

_Pervert_

_Degenerate_

_Filth_

He deigned none of them worthy of a reply, but they still bounced around in his skull like dice in a cup. Rattle rattle roll.

In the end, it had been a long time coming, and had bloomed from the fact that nothing else could bloom in his garden. In barren soil, only sorrow had grown to fruit. He would eat it or starve. He would gorge himself on the pain to keep from feeling nothing at all. He would do what the others could not, because he was stronger than them. Stronger than anything they could throw at him. In the end, they could not destroy him because he would destroy him. And that was the way it ought to be.

He’d thought about how he would do it, and had found the answer as easy as the decision to go through with the act in the first place. There was no where to feasibly hang a noose from, and he didn’t even know how to make a noose in the first place. He didn’t have a gun, and Lord Grantham’s guns were locked away under the groundskeeper’s watchful eye. The drugs and acids (such as lye) were likewise locked up by Mrs. Hughes. He highly doubted there was enough in the depleted cabinet to do the job properly. If there was one thing he did not want to do it was botch this final act. Thomas Barrow had failed at everything in his life… but he would not fail at his suicide. He would not.

His thoughts had then turned to Edward. Sweet, beautiful, wonderful Edward with whom he would have happily spent his life as a caring valet and an even more caring lover. Edward’s misery had swallowed him whole, despite how Thomas had desperately tried to pull him up and save him. In the end the drag of death had been stronger than Thomas’ love, and he’d had to concede heartbroken defeat when Lady Sybil had found Edward dead in his bed.

And suddenly, the poetry had written itself.

Death had taken Edward from him. Had skull fucked the only good thing in Thomas’ life till all that was left was a pool of blood; so be it, death was a bitter mistress. Thomas had loved other men since Edward. He’d fawned over Jimmy like a schoolboy moping in the grass… but Jimmy was not like Edward. Edward had been a gentleman, honest and virtuous. Had they ever become lovers, Thomas was certain that Edward would have loved him tenderly. Would have treated him far better than Jimmy ever could. Thomas did not begrudge Jimmy for feigning to love him. One could not hold that as a crime against the other. He could, however, acknowledge that between the two Edward had been the one to initiate contact and warmth… Jimmy had always taken. Thomas found himself wanting to be Edward’s lover even in death. Wanting to devote himself to Edward, as Anna had devoted herself to Bates or Lady Mary to Matthew Crawley. He wanted to be consumed by something other than the enormous pain that bogged him down into a numb void. He wanted to be brought back to life even as he took his life. Wanted to feel his heart pound in his chest like he was a schoolboy in love again… like Edward was still touching his knee and whispering sweet anecdotes into his ear.

Thomas made the decision swiftly, and took savage strange pleasure in it. They’d never been united in life, but they would be united in death. Thomas would take his life in the same way Edward had taken his… and at last Thomas would find peace.

It was a Tuesday. July 11th, 1925. The sun dawned on a clear sky, bizarrely cloudless. Thomas took it as an omen of good faith, as if the universe were finally giving him the sunshine that he longed for because he was going to take his life. As Thomas shaved that morning, he cleaned his razor with care, stropping it for good measure, and stowed it in his pocket like a child might sneak a piece of candy. Carson served the upstairs breakfast… Lord Hexam was still dining with them though Henry Talbot had fled. Thomas noted these things in passing clarity. This would be his final breakfast, and so he took no pleasure in sipping a small cup of tea. Then Lord Hexam was gone, just like Henry Talbot; Thomas merely noted that there would be no guests for him to attend to (besides Lady Rosamund). All the better reason. The universe was lining up the coincidences and demanding he take notice. Next thing Thomas knew, Lady Mary and Branson had both left the house. More coincidences, more helpful hints. Finally the top of the tower came when Baxter decided to walk with Moseley to the schoolhouse for moral support. This, above everything, was clear indication that it was time. Baxter was the one who knew him best, who might be able to sense Thomas’ final act was afoot. With her out of the house, Thomas could be assured of a quiet sendoff with no one to interrupt him.

He watched Moseley from across the servant’s table with dull contentment. As servants walked around him, Thomas wondered at each of their faces and shared histories. He would soon be a ghost in a long line of ghosts. Another faceless name that faded out of their stories as time trod on. Moseley seemed quite nervous, gray faced, and kept looking bitterly down at his times table as if it had somehow cemented his awful situation. Clearly the new teaching position was not going well.

“Typical.” Thomas heard him mumble to himself, “Always my luck.”

He looked up and caught Thomas’ eye, bristling at once and instead looking away.  
It did not bother Thomas anymore. Who liked to look at a corpse?

“I hope you make more of your life than I ever made of mine.” Thomas replied. Moseley blanched, looking back at him agape. Thomas looked down at his teacup and found it empty.

It was time. Rattle rattle roll.

He rose up from the table, biding silent adieu to the servant’s hall that had so plagued his existence for the past fifteen years. He observed the piano where Jimmy had once jaunted out tunes for Ivy. He noted the mantel, atop which an ashtray full of cigarette butts was perched. They would be tossed out by a maid at some point, another memento of his existence swept aside. That was as it should be.

Upstairs he went, passing by Mrs. Hughes at the base. She did not even spare him a second glance. Once again, that was as it should be.

He ascended the steps to the very top floor, and found his room slightly cluttered. It took only a second to put it to rights… making sure his clothes were neatly folded and his personal affects stowed with care. They’d probably be offered to the homeless, or the other servants. As soon as he was done he took one last look at his bedroom and wondered at the crisp corners of his made-up cot. The way his red wool curtains were drawn despite it being the middle of the day. He felt a strange detachment to the scene, like he were a ghost and already dead.

He exited his room, but suddenly found himself besieged by Andy who was entering his own room and looked rumpled. He’d split a stain on his livery, something black and seeping like ink.

“Spilt ink on my jacket. I’ll have to change.” Andy said to no one in particular. Thomas blinked at the stain, his valet experience kicking in like clockwork.

Funny he should think of clocks now.

“Put it to soak in salted water and scrub it with lye.” Thomas replied. His voice was hoarse. Andy paused, his hand on the doorknob as he noted Thomas’ pallid appearance.

“Are you alright, Mr. Barrow?” Andy asked, “You look like you could do with a lie down.”

“I’m going in for a bath.” Thomas replied. Andy nodded, content.

“Wish I had the time to take one, everything I touch seems to get stained with this blasted ink. Excuse me.” Andy said, and without another word he exited into his room, flashing Thomas one last boyish smile and closing the door with a curt snap.

Thomas blinked, and turned the corner in the hall.  
Only to run straight into Anna and Baxter.

He paused, taken slightly aback as Anna stared at him bemusedly and Baxter closed the door to the women’s side. She was dressed in coat and hat, clearly on her way to walk Moseley to the schoolhouse. God only knows what Anna was doing upstairs. Was this the universe’ way of telling him to say goodbye?

“Are you alright, Mr. Barrow?” Anna asked as Baxter fiddled with the lock.

“… Of course.” Thomas replied. “Why wouldn’t I be.”  
His lips felt numb as he spoke.

Baxter looked up from the door and lock with a weary smile, that same enchanted view she always took with him as if he was her son and not her co-worker. Her sugary sweetness made the cavity in his chest ache, and he watched her as Anna walked past.

He rounded the corner again for the bathroom, and as he reached the final door to his demise he opened it without pause or regret.

He closed the door behind him with Baxter still in the hall, and pressed his back to the door as he heard her walk past. His eyes were closed, unseeing of the bathroom he knew to be before him. He would not open them, he decided, until the last footstep had faded away. Until all was quiet and well. The universe had set the scene, it was time to play his part.

Silence.  
Now, then.  
Rattle rattle roll.

Thomas opened his eyes and observed the bathroom before him. The red checked tile of the walls, the fine waxed wood of the floor. The tiny lone mirror on the wall and, above all, the gaunt ceramic tub in the center.

As deep and cold as the grave he was about to fill.

Thomas walked to the mirror and sink, unsure of why. Perhaps he wanted to see his face one last time, observe what the others had observed to make them so question his appearance and state of mind. But the face he found reflected in the looking glass was much the same as ever, and he dismissed both Anna and Andy’s questionings as mere conveniences of the universe. A sort of private ‘are you still going to do this’ check.

Yes. He was still going to do this.

Thomas reached into his pocket and found the razor waiting there. It was a patient, quiet thing… much like a well behaved child that sat still at the dinner table and listened to their elders. He withdrew it from his pocket and set it on the counter, feigning to so much as look at it while he disrobed from his livery.

Off went his tails, and waistcoat, both of which he hung up on the clothes horse. He slipped his suspenders from his shoulders, feeling them bang about his knees as he unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it free of his trousers. Suddenly clad in only his undershirt, Thomas realized that when found he would be found naked… and that somehow did not set right with him. He decided he would keep on the rest of his clothes, though still his shoes would have to come off. Part of him was rather delighting in being found clothed in the bath, a sort of final flick of the bird to Carson who so detested anything out of the ordinary.

 _“We know what you have to do.”_ Carson had leered at him over the table.

 _“How is your job search going, Mr. Barrow?”_ He’d demanded.

Thomas felt a rush of relief when he considered that he would no longer have to worry about a job or money. It was like an anvil had been lifted from his chest.

Shoes untied and slipped free, Thomas unclipped his sock garters and set the entire lot underneath the clothes horse with utmost care. For some reason he found that even in death he would not want to appear sloppy. As clean shaven as his face would be, so too would his livery be seen in proper order. After a life in servitude he knew no other way. And that was as it should be.

Thomas walked over to the tub and perched himself upon the edge, setting the stopper and turing the faucet to content himself with listening to the hiss and bubble as the basin slowly filled itself with hot water. Thomas had always liked scalding hot bathes, the kind that burned the skin and set a steam to the air. He was the same with his tea, inwardly delighting in how his tongue had stung when he’d taken that first hasty gulp. Odd he should think of such a thing now, when he would never drink tea again. He noted the tea he’d drunk that morning had been lukewarm at best… a final pleasure denied. A final prod by the universe.

Thomas glanced at the tub and found it only halfway full. It would have to do, he’d run out of patience and time. Turning off the faucet, Thomas spent an entire minute simply looking down at the tub and running his fingers through the water. It stung in a pleasant manner. Thomas noted he was still wearing his leather glove.

There would be no need for that anymore.

Unbuttoning it, Thomas pulled the glove free to observe his naked wounded hand. To marvel at the scar on his palm that so stiffened his pinky and ring finger during the winter months. Hot water often helped him to clench them better. This final bath would be the best remedy of all.

Thomas set his glove inside the pocket of his livery, and finally plucked up the razor from the sink counter.

It felt oddly cold in his hand.

As he stepped into the tub, Thomas sank down into the water and likened it to pulling blankets over his chest in bed. So warm, so content was he that he momentarily put his death on pause simply to enjoy this one last pleasure in life. This lovely, lovely bath.

He rested his head against the back of the tub and sighed, letting his eyes close as he rolled his head to the side. It was a distraction from the end, nothing more. Soon, his veins would be empty. Weightless. Lifted. He imagined he would be pulled from this tub by Edward. Taken to some different place where he could at long last lay his head down and rest. No more regret, no more loneliness, and above all no more doubt. No more wondering what on earth was wrong with him, no more contemplating why he’d been born to such a breed. No more enemies to hound his shadow. No more lies. No more needing to make up for a lacking, to pretend and hide the cracks. Let all the cracks show, he decided. Let them find a shattered china doll in this tub. So smashed that no one would be able to decipher him from a stranger.

Maybe then, duped into thinking him unknown, they would show him mercy.

He opened his eyes and drew both his wrists out of the water.  
He took the blade into his wounded hand first, knowing that it would be the most difficult to wield. He pressed the blade deep into his flesh, steel biting at nerves, and pulled.

Even then, he was not content. He struck the blade like he often would have a match: once, twice, three times.

If he’d been a normal mind, he might have found it in him to cry from the pain.

The next wrist was somehow worse, the throbbing pain from his original cut stinging and burning beneath the hot water as he forced his cut tendons to function one last time. He cut with the same precision: once, twice, three times.

And then, quiet.  
Rattle rattle roll.

Thomas felt the razor slip from his fingers even as they began to numb.  
He closed his eyes again.

He wondered what would come next, briefly. Perhaps a white light, or a feeling of elation? A great understanding? A conversation with god?

 _No_. He thought, even as his mind began to wander, _No, let me converse with Edward instead_.

That was his final wish. He felt certainly the universe would hear it.

 

A heartbeat passed, and then another. Thick, drumming, stiffening. Folding in on itself. The gentle slosh of hot water about his collarbone and nape. He felt his wrists begin to throb. Then, oddly, his wrists stopped throbbing and instead he merely felt heavy. Tired. Sleepy.

 _Oh thank god_ , he dwelled. _It’s over at last_.

Time blinked.  
It was difficult to comprehend what happened next.

One minute he was in the daylight, his eyes closed to try and find some semblance of peace in that steaming hot tub. The next minute he was not. In all things, he was not.

He was not at peace.

The room was black, utterly black and devoid. The null had consumed him, and just like that Thomas knew he was dead. Why then was a terrible horrible fear griping his chest? Why was anxiety squeezing his heart when instead he ought to be feeling contentment and calm? He suddenly found the water about him to be freezing cold and he thrashed in it as he blinked his eyes against the blackness.

He opened his mouth to scream, but no sound came out.

And then, hands. Hands on his face, stroking the clammy skin of his high cheekbones.

Loving hands.

“…My darling…” A voice whispered in the dark.

In the void, Thomas reached out, blind as he fumbled for whoever it was that held him. The voice was so familiar to him- an Oxford accent. It repeated those two words over and over again as Thomas struggled in the dark: _My darling, my darling, my darling_.

He grasped at the hands on his cheeks, feeling the frigid water churn as he kicked and struggled. The hands were firm and strong, but so cold. So very very cold. Why was everything cold? Thomas shivered, petrified.

“Edward?” Thomas called out, finally finding his voice in the gloom.

The hands slipped, embracing him around the chest and helping him to sit up in the icy bath. Someone’s face was pressed against his own: curly haired, a scarred brow. Edward.

“Oh, Edward!” Thomas howled, his heart squeezing to finally burst in pain from a lifetime spent in absolute isolation. Edward nuzzled him, nose brushing across Thomas’ own as he kissed Thomas’ cheeks. The kiss of a corpse; the kiss of death.

 _Yes, kiss me_ , Thomas thought desperately. _Kiss me and take me away from here. Kiss me and take me home_.

“Edward help me!” He begged.

“I am.” Edward replied.

Through the blackness and gloom, through the sound of the tub’s churning icy depths and the pounding of his own heart, Thomas heard a wild far off pounding. It sounded like a bizarre tribal drum, as if someone was preparing for a sacrifice. Was it the drum of his own death march?

 _“Hello?!”_ He heard the familiar voice of Phyllis Baxter scream. She sounded twenty miles away. _“Mr. Barrow are you in there?!”_ more pounding, _“Will you open this door!!”_

 _“Get back!”_ He heard Andy shout.

“What is that?!” Thomas demanded, frightened.

“Don’t be afraid.” Edward whispered in his ear. He was talking in a rush, as if pressed for time, “Everything’s going to be alright-“

“Edward what was that-?!” Thomas demanded, his question still unanswered.

Edward suddenly clasped Thomas’ face again, grip hard and commanding as a strange splashing sound filled the air.

“Thomas, I don’t have much time.” Edward began. “But-“

“What do you mean, you don’t have much time?!” Nothing was for certain in this void, “Am I- am I going to hell?!” It seemed plausible.

“No!” Edward’s voice was fierce and loving, “No, my darling. No.”

Thomas clung as tightly as he could to Edward, terrified that should he slip he would be lost to the frigid blackness forever. Edward was the only thing real in the world in that moment. The only thing he could rely upon for sanity and safety. His arms were as cold as the water in which Thomas sat, but he did not care. He would take comfort in this cold just as he had in the warmth of his final bath and grave. Anything over the void. Anything over isolation.

But god… he was freezing.  
Rattle rattle roll.

“Edward, I’m so c-cold.” Thomas bit out, praying Edward would pull him from this frigid bath soon.

“Listen to me, and never forget what I’m about to say-“ Edward whispered in his ear. Once again he was talking fast.

But even as Edward began to speak, a strange sucking motion was taking Thomas by the naval, forcing him down and out of Edward’s icy grip so that he was almost submerged into the frigid water entirely.

“Edward-!” Thomas choked as water rushed into his mouth. He thrashed, gasping for air, for anything, but he was drowning and could not gain proper hold.

For a minute he knew nothing but hands. Hands that tried grabbed at his wrists where they throbbed and burned in an icy flame. Hands that pressed at his face and neck, as if trying to keep down a sweat. Hands that lifted him from underneath his armpits and by his feet. Hands everywhere.

 _This is death_ \- Thomas thought in a terror as he was finally lifted from the bath in that blackness. Lifted not by Edward but by nameless demons that came to bore him away to hell. _This is death_.

But even as he was drug from his grave, like a necromancer to his dance, Thomas felt the last vestiges of his sanity slip and fade. He was washed into the gray, his sight wrapped over by a muslim cloth. Soon there was nothing, not even hands, save for a bone aching chill and a feeling of nudity. A feeling that everything had been stripped bare by the universe at long last to reveal the rotten skeleton underneath. Thomas’s eyes closed, blackness to blackness as he felt a soft surface underneath him.

 _Let me die_. He prayed in that moment. He no longer wished for anything, even Edward- only for death. Anything but the void. _Let me die_.

 

Rattle rattle roll.


	2. No Alarms and No Surprises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas lives. Unfortunately for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who is reading and reviewing this story. It means more to me than you know.

There was no slow ‘coming to’. No gradual pull back of the gloom to help him transition into the light. He was thrown into a jumble of sensations much like a school boy being tossed into a pond on a hot summer day by his classmates.

Dizzy, vision pinwheeling and bursting with stars, Thomas heard a parade of voices stamp over his aching head. None of them were Edward’s. He was naked, covered by some kind of duvet. His arms were spread out atop the covers, palms up and throbbing. Oh, how they throbbed. He was freezing cold, despite the blanket that covered him. It was as if the demonic hands that had drug him from the bath had now flung him onto a bed of ice and forced him to lay there nude. A sort of hellish punishment meant for a sodomite.

“Is it bad?”  
This was rather bad, yes.

“Yes. He’s cut both his radial and ulnar artery in both wrists.”  
Cut the what?

“What does that mean?”  
Excellent question.

“It means he wanted to die- can I have this room cleared, please?”  
Wait, what room where? Who wanted to die?

“Andrew, Anna, Ms. Baxter-“  
How many people were dead with him? Was this his actual purgatory? To remain with his co-workers for the rest of his days? Good lord what a punishment.

“No, I will not leave him.”  
Leave who?

“I’ll leave.”  
Who was leaving?

“I’ll go too, but you’ll let me know if there’s anything I can do-?”  
Who was going?

“Mm.”  
That was remarkably unspecific.

Shoes upon a hardwood floor. A door closing.  
More spiraling. More shivering. More cold.

Cold.

 

Thomas could not exactly understand how one sequence of events had lead to another. In life, he’d woken, dressed, ate breakfast, worked, had tea, worked, had supper, and gone to bed. In death, there was no fluid line of time. One minute he’d been in a bathtub dying. Next minute he’d been in the same bathtub dead, but also in the dark and somehow with Edward. Then he wasn’t in a bathtub at all, somehow was nude, and Edward was gone. Thomas tried to call out for Edward again, tried to call out for anyone at all, but suddenly there was a hot stinging pain in his hands and he blurted out a broken scream instead.

Of god it was like his wrists were on fire. He jerked beneath the blanket of whatever held him down, but it was heavy as concrete upon him. Was he being pressed to death? He jerked again, trying to get free.

“Steady on…” someone murmured, an endearing phrase indeed. “Steady on.”

Someone was dabbing at his brow with a warm cloth, and somehow it soothed Thomas. He wondered if he was in some sort of purgatory still, where partly there was pain and partly there was pleasure. Pain suddenly pricked at his wrists again, not hot and fiery like before but short and sharp. In and out, in and out it needled. Thomas could make no sense of it.

More footsteps. A terse, short cough.

“I’ve just informed his…” But the voice was Carson’s and Thomas groaned audibly in distress as he realized that this realm of hell somehow housed Carson too. He could literally think of no one he’d want to share less time with. “I’ve just informed his lordship. We’d best leave Dr. Clarkson to it.”

Wait. What?

“I’ll go-“ Was that Mrs. Hughes?

“Ms. Baxter-“ How were Carson, Mrs. Hughes, and Baxter all in this purgatory with him if they were still alive? It made absolutely no sense, unless some calamity had occurred and Downton Abbey had fallen into the ground like the House of Usher. As the needling pain continued in his wrist, Thomas felt his heart begin to pound wildly in his chest. It was like his body was starting up again, trying to live despite being…

Despite being…

“I will not leave him.”

“Ms. Baxter can stay. I appreciate her help, and so does Thomas.”

Thomas opened his eyes.

He was in his bedroom, propped up on his bed against his pillows and covered with the red quilt that usually lay over his stolen armchair. He was naked, his arms and legs poking out awkwardly beneath the tiny blanket that gave him meagre dignity against the three other people in the room. Carson stood in his doorway, looking grave and gray-faced as he observed Thomas for a stranger in morbid silence. To Thomas’ right sat Baxter, dabbing at his forehead with a white cloth. She was just as nervous as Carson, somehow on the verge of tears. To Thomas’ left sat Dr. Clarkson, an entire kit of supplies arranged out on a white towel atop the red quilt.

He was stitching up Thomas’ wrists, pale lifeless thing with deep black gashes across their core. In and out he wove a needle- the sharp pain Thomas had been so perplexed by.  
He looked from Baxter dabbing his brow, to Clarkson stitching his wrists.  
He’d failed.

He was alive.

The screaming sob that burst from his throat was an animalistic thing, a pent up explosion of howling misery that overwhelmed him in one sharp second to send him into a wild wave of despair. He had _failed_ , failed to die and now he would fail to live. He had lost his one chance at escape from this hellish life and now everyone would know he’d attempted to escape it in the first place. Everyone would know of his weakness, his foolishness, his ugly nature. The maids would whisper and gossip, the family would shudder when he walked into a room. The entire world would see the scars on his wrists and know. _Know_.

Worst of all, he was now beyond the reach of Edward.  
_My darling…_ the words floated ghostly through his mind. _My darling, my darling, my darling_.

Thomas screamed at the top of his lungs, tears burning down his cheeks- he jerked instinctively, arms coming up so that Dr. Clarkson’s work was cut momentarily to a pause as Thomas thrashed and howled.

“No-!” Thomas screamed as Baxter suddenly covered his face with his hands. It was like she was trying to give him dignity, but if that was her mission she’d be at it for decades. For centuries. Thomas was a wretch, a vile hollow shell at this point. He was without dignity. Without will. Without anything to align him to the human race. “Let me die, please god let me die…”

But god had abandoned him.

“It’s alright.” Baxter whispered, hands shielding his face even as he wept and sobbed. He felt a strong commanding grip take him by the arm, forcing his swollen and abused wrists back down onto the red coverlet. “It’s perfectly alright.”

Thomas wept, unable to even respond for the howling misery within him. It had rendered him mute in his inability to express all his woe at once. He choked on his own tongue, spluttering as he cried. Baxter would not allow the other men to see his face, kept him hidden from view by using her hands and the handkerchief with which she’d dabbed his brow.

“Can we keep him out of the hospital?” Carson’s voice barely registered amid the high pitched screams of hysteria drifting through his mind.

“Ms. Baxter found him in time.” Needling pain in his wrist, in and out, in and out, “He’s going through hypovolemic shock- a symptom of severe blood loss. I’ll want him kept in bed for at least five days.”

“Of course.” Carson agreed in a rush, “We’ll keep this as quiet as possible. For his sake.”

More petting fingers, more consoling whispers, more Baxter trying to give him dignity.

“Even in this day and age, suicide is still a criminal offense.” Needling pain, “Anyone with a heart and moral conscience will tell you it shouldn’t be, but-“

It suddenly hit Thomas that for the rest of his miserable fucking life, should it be long or short, he would have to bear the scars of his eternal shame. His sexuality he could feasibly hide behind the guise of servitude and questions unasked, but there would be no need for questions with scars on his wrists. All would see, all would know. Rattle rattle roll.

“GOD LET ME DIE!” Thomas screamed, his voice going as loud as he could feasibly muster under such dire circumstances. In that moment he screamed to the universe which had brought him a sunny day and a quiet house. To god, who had given him a bathtub full of icy water and five seconds with Edward in whatever realm of hell or purgatory he had momentarily stumbled through. To Clarkson who surely knew how to kill him. To Carson who’d obviously wanted to once or twice. To anyone with a gun or a blade… or a sense of mercy.

But even as his echoes stopped bouncing off the walls of his room, he did not die.  
So it seemed, that too was a failed effort.

“I’m listening.” Baxter sheltered him, her arms about his face and neck to shield him from view. Only her face was viewable to him, swallowing up his whole vision like the moon on a cloudless night. Her eyes did not water, her expression did not crack. In the moment, she was as durable as an iron shield, “Talk to me, I’m listening.”

With each breath he sucked in and forced out, his aching ribs burned and bled. “I can’t do this anymore-“

“What can’t you do?”  
Needling pain, in and out, in and out.  
Rattle rattle roll.

“This-!!” Thomas seized. This, god damnit. This, this, this. All of this, none of this, every bit of this and whatever the fuck else lay in between. This covered any issue in his mind, no matter how big or small- whether it was the way he spent days without conversation or enduring Carson’s constant badgering. This. **This**.

He’d shot up, in an attempt to somehow seize control of the situation again. In that moment he had half a mind to leap from bed, find the first window he could, and fling himself out of it. But as he tried to sit up, his mind suddenly went spinning in wild directions, and he nearly fainted outright back into Baxter’s arms. She supported him around the shoulders, keeping him from hitting his head against his iron headrest. Thomas was oblivious to the way Carson jumped, shocked at his garish behavior. Unseeing to how Clarkson had to pause mid-stitch in an attempt not to rip his prior sutures. All he knew was the arm around his back. The shoulder on which he leaned.

“I-“ Carson paused, unsure whether to offer aid to Clarkson or not. Unsure of what aid he could be or if he even wanted to be it.

“It’s fine.” Was Clarkson’s only reply, waiting patiently as the needle dangled from Thomas’ unfinished wrist, “It’s fine.”

The smell of talcum powder, sweat, and floral soap. It did not sooth him. It only reminded him that he was still alive. Death did not have scent. When Thomas had embraced Edward, he had not smelt Edward’s hair slicked in Brilliantine… the musk at his neck or the detergent of his soldier’s uniform. He convulsed. Baxter rubbed at his chest, hand patting in a rhythm over his pounding heart.

“Don’t you understand, there’s nothing for me anymore. There was never anything to begin with. I have nothing, I am nothing. I’m a foul, disgusting, piece of shit-!” The damning words flowed from his mouth, endless. Needling at his wrist, in and out, in and out.

“Sh.” Talcum and floral soap in his nose, wisps of brown hair tickling his face, “Hush now. Hush now.”

“I can’t handle being alone-“ Stripped bare, light on every intention, “I can’t do this alone anymore. I’m always alone- no one will even look at me.” The burning shame and agony, “The last time someone touched me was when Jimmy shook my hand goodbye.” Holding on just a second too long to be natural.

Please touch me. Someone touch me.  
Rattle rattle roll.

Slim fingers threaded through his hair, stroking his temple. The needling had ceased, brought to a stand still; the sound of scissors snipping and suddenly the tender bite of a tight wrap. Over, and over again.

“What’s the point?” He wondered aloud, “What’s the point of stitching me back up when I’m already in pieces?”

“Why are you in pieces?” Clarkson asked. Non judgmental, just mildly curious. Ever the doctor.

“I’m alone.” Thomas sniffed. More wiping, more stinging and burning. He cried out, savage pain ripping at the tender skin of his unstitched wrist. He blinked, dazed, now seeing the pain to be Clarkson wiping at his open wounds with iodine. It made the skin turn from gray to dark orange, tainted by the dye. “I’m utterly alone. I can never get married- or- or have children- or or have a-a-anything at all. I’m nothing. I’m dirt. I’m dirt!” He blurted out.

Dirt, he was more like dirt than ice. Why? Thomas couldn’t follow a steady train of thought.

“Do you think having a relationship would make your life more meaningful-“

“Yes!” Thomas shouted. What a load of tripe- it was so easy to claim relationships were unimportant when you had to ability to incur one if you wanted. Clarkson could take up with Isobel Crawley, or any other fucking woman in their village. Thomas could not do that- in their village or any village. He was loveless. Lifeless.

“Any relationship at all! A friendship, a lover- anything!” He cried out. Clarkson did not answer, did not look at him- was too busy stitching Thomas’ other wrist. With each pull of thread, the blackness was closed up into dark orange and gray. With each snap of twine, that bathtub full of ice got one step further away. Edward’s arms… _My darling, my darling, my darling_.

“Imagine your day from sun up to sun down, completely cut off from everyone around you!” A myriad of days paraded past him. Tasteless porridge and stale tea. Burnt toast and acrid roasted vegetables. Dull light. Gloomy rooms. No warmth, no sun- nothing but ghosts and the people that kept them trapped. “Imagine your day with nothing but your thoughts to console you, nothing but your own touch and your cold bed! Imagine if every person you tried to talk to turned away!”

Bates, Anna, Moseley-

“If every person you tried to have a relationship with died, or left, or just stopped caring!”

Edward, Philip… Jimmy-  
Needling. In and out, in and out.

“Imagine it!”

But there was no amount of howling or thrashing that would bridge the gap between Thomas and another human being. He had so isolated himself from humanity that he was now adrift even in a time of absolute crisis. Despite how he pleaded, despite how he provided, there was nothing to be done. He had failed to die alone. Now he would live alone. He could not imagine a worse fate.

He fell back against Baxter, utterly spent. His head was pounding wildly, his vision blackening- for a moment he could almost delude himself into imagining that he’d never left Edward or that realm of hell. That he was once more in a frozen bath. But then the voices of the living cut through his gloom again and forced him to the ugly reminder that he was alive. That he had failed.

“You’re going through hypovolemic shock.” Dr. Clarkson said. He’d finished sewing Thomas’ wrist shut and was now proceeding to wrap it tightly in gauze. “I’m tempted to put you in the hospital-“

“No.” Though Thomas did not open his eyes as Baxter stroked his hair, he knew it was Carson that spoke. He could not fathom why he heard fear in the man’s voice, “I-… Let’s keep him here, and out of the public eye. For his sake.”

Dr. Clarkson said nothing for a moment, taking his time to repack his supplies. Thomas blinked open one eye, his heart rate finally beginning to slow, and saw him packing away supplies. He seemed so calm, so in control; it mystified Thomas to know men could be in such a state. To know that some men were not in a constant mirage of panic and confusion. Perhaps he’d spent so long under the rock of his own guilty conscience that he’d forgotten some men could sleep easily at night. He was the very definition of ‘jaded’.

“I’m going back to the hospital to gather some supplies.” Clarkson declared, rising up from the bed and taking his traveling bag with him. “I’ll be back as promptly as I can, expect me in an hour or less. Until then, I have strict orders that are to be followed without delay.” At this, he turned to Carson, a finger in the air with clear warning, “Keep him warm and calm, in that bed-“ He pointed, “And in company. Do not under any circumstances leave him alone, even if for a mere minute. Repeated attempts are common and in Thomas’ case, I don’t see any simple answers forthcoming. Am I understood?”

“Of course.” Baxter said, before Carson had a proper chance to answer. She continued to hide Thomas’ face. Allowing him to relax back against the pillow, she cared for him gently, brushing his hair with her fingers and wiping up sweat and tears. “but it might not be possible for someone to watch him all the time.”

“Then as often as possible.” Clarkson ordered, “Likewise remove anything that he could use for a second attempt from the room.”

Thomas’ head spun, marbles rolling all about the floor as Baxter rose from the bed and left him cold if only to fetch him another blanket. She flung it over his body, covering him from head to toe in flannel which warmed him slightly against the bitter sting of the night air. She sat by his head again, tucking him in- Thomas wondered when it would all end.

Clarkson was leaving, Carson following him out the door.

“May I speak to you in private?” Thomas heard Clarkson say as the door to his room snapped shut. Carson's “Of course” was cut short.

Thomas wondered what would come next and if he would be put in a sanatorium. If he would be locked in a padded white cell for the rest of his days to rot in a pool of his own piss, head shaved and arms bound. Terrified he whimpered upon his pillow, more tears leaking from his eyes as Baxter covered his face again with her hands and arms.

“I’m here.” she whispered softly in his ear, as loving as any voice had ever been, “I’m listening to you. I’m here.”

And though, for the first time, Thomas had someone’s willing ear, he could find it within him to speak.

 

It was difficult to say when he fell asleep, but when Thomas woke again he was alone.

It was night, and he lay in the dark of his room like a shrouded tomb. The blankets Baxter and Clarkson had laid over him were still tucked around his frame, and he was dripping in a cold sweat. His heart was pounding, making him wonder if he were close to an anxiety attack in his frail condition; somehow the darkness that swallowed his room made it all the worse and Thomas had a desperate desire to get out and run. To leave the abbey before Clarkson returned- before he was surely sent to a mental asylum for the rest of his days.

Frightened, Thomas had to struggle to sit up. When he finally managed it he was so dizzy and so disorientated that he nearly vomited upon the blanket. Acid bubbled in his throat as he fumbled in the dark for the edge of his bed. He found it, and barely managed to rise. Every time he attempted to stand, his legs would give out, causing him to fall back down. Only on the fourth try when Thomas threw out an elbow to collide with his desk did he finally manage to remain upright.

 _“My darling…”_ he heard the words whispered in his head, _“My darling, my darling, my darling…”_

He staggered to his bureau, naked cold. His hands, so heavily bandaged and weak, did not want to work properly. It took every bit of Thomas’ coordination and strength to finally open the top drawer of his bureau where he found pants inside. All he could do at this point was pick them up, hold them to his chest, and he did so with care as he fetched an undershirt and a pair of trousers. Tying shoes laces, snapping sock garters, buttoning shirts- all of it was beyond his aid now. the most he could do was stumble back to the bed, shrug on a shirt, pull his pants up, and snap his trousers closed. Clothed but laying numb, Thomas wondered how on earth he was going to pack a valise, how he would be able to get down the stairs and out the door. The consequences of staying though were so dire that Thomas knew he could not stay. The minute Clarkson returned, Thomas was certain he’d ring for a sanatorium.

There was no time to dally anymore. Thomas had failed to die, and now he would be forced to live.

Staggering back up from bed, Thomas slumped against the cold wood of his door, fumbling for the nob and slipped into the hall. He found it lit but bare; frightened of being found, Thomas headed for the stairs and began to make his way down. Every time he looked at his feet, the world pitched. With his eyes half closed and leaning against the rail for dear life, Thomas stumbled from step to step. His bare feet were freezing upon the cool stone, growing dirty from dust underfoot. He almost slid in the grime, catching himself with his cheekbone on the rail as he made it to the second landing and down to the first. The sound of chatter around him was loud, far too amplified for comfort, and frightened him intensely so the he immediately drew his hands up as if to protect his face from a beating. Slumping off the stairs, Thomas carefully poked his head around the corner to see that no one was waiting in the eaves by the kitchen. Several people were clearly sitting in the servant’s hall though. Thomas could hear laughter and knew he was on the verge of being caught should he linger. The hallway to the back door was clear, his one and only shot for freedom, and Thomas took it, staggering as he slumped from railing to door frame.

“Why are you out of bed? I thought you had the flue. And why aren’t you dressed?”

Thomas looked around, horrified, to see Daisy straightening up with a teapot in hand. She was clearly confused, her fine brow wrinkled. She’d been serving a cuppa to both Andy and Anna, who gaped horrified at the sight of him. Baxter had had her back to him, and swiveled around fast in her seat, panic making her face drain of blood as she saw him there. Baxter shot up from her seat, nearly causing it to fall on its back legs as she scrambled around it.

Thomas panicked, and ran.

He was too weak to go fast, too light headed to make it far, and he only got several paces down the hall before he tripped. In a last minute ditch to keep from being captured and sent to an asylum, Thomas diverted quick to the left into the boot room and slammed the door shut before anyone else could get through. He locked it a mere second before a quick rapping knock came on the wood, and Thomas gasped, backing up to slump against the wood of the work station. He pitched, reeled, and nearly vomited upon the wood as he fell onto a work stool that sat tucked underneath. It caused him to trip, and in a massive clatter he fell to the floor with the stool atop him. For a moment he simply lay there, shaking, practically swimming in his sweat as the hammering kept up on the door. Vision fuzzy and path unclear, an odd darkness swam close to Thomas’ face, and he opened his eyes to see two boots before him.

Soldier’s boots.

He looked up into a darkened face, framed by a stiff army uniform, but before he could fully grasp who was before him and what was going on, the soldier had vanished and the door to the boot room was open. Mrs. Hughes was on the other side, and she swooped down upon him at once to pull the stool off of him and caress his brow.

“Thomas!” She held him by the shoulders, helping him to slowly sit up. So disorientated was he that Thomas could not fully grasp who else was in the room or what they wanted. “What are on earth are you doing down here? Come back upstairs with me, we’ll get you put right.”

“Yer gonna… send me away-“ Thomas slurred, voice thick and tongue tied as his vision went in and out. Where had the soldier gone? “Asylum-“

“Oh Thomas-“ Mrs. Hughes beseeched, sympathetic. Someone was taking him under the arms, trying to get him back up. “No one is going to put you anywhere but in bed. I wouldn’t allow them to put you into an asylum, and neither would Ms. Baxter.”

“There we go, that’s it-“ Baxter was in his other ear, and though it was Mrs. Hughes that soothed his fears, Thomas found his arms blindly linking around Baxter to keep him from pitching again. Unable to see, blind and in the dark, Thomas followed her lead out of the room and surely back into the hall. Fear of accepting comfort battled with a desperate desire to be comforted, and Thomas ended up moaning into Baxter’s neck as he was steered by several pairs of hands into another room. A door was closed, and Thomas felt himself being deposited into a chair. Baxter kept holding his head up, wiping at the sweat on his face and neck. As if from down a long pipe, Thomas heard Andy speaking: “Can I help?”

But the rest was muddled. Thomas nearly fainted, slumping forward so that several loud voices were suddenly in his ear and a light hand was smacking his face. It went to gray, the hands vanishing and the cold returning so that for a moment Thomas feared he would be sucked back into that icy bath where demons wrestled him under the water. Instead, in what seemed like only the tiniest second later, Thomas was being awoken by a warm sensation at the back of his neck and a soft rag upon his forehead. He slowly blinked his eyes opened, dazzled by a warm light before him which illuminated several fretful faces. Mrs. Hughes was the closest, Ms. Baxter to her left. Both of them were watching him, their faces flickering with relief as they registered him waking. To the left of Ms. Baxter stood Andy, who looked incredibly nervous and sweaty, not to mention exhausted. Behind them all stood Carson, who kept his posture rigid and his face neutral. Thomas realized there was someone holding him up and turned to look to his left only to have several people make to stop him. Baxter and Mrs. Hughes reached out, taking his face in hand to keep him looking forward.

“Don’t move.” Baxter urged, “You have a needle in your neck.”

As if bidden by her words, Thomas realized that his head was absolutely pounding. He moaned aloud, attempting to bring a hand up to touch his temple. But even that movement was impeded, slowed down by someone at Thomas’ side who remained partially obscured as they kept his hand in his lap.

“My head… hurts… so bad…” Thomas managed to say, the words thick like cotton in his mouth.

“I’m administering a fluid replacement.” came the voice of Dr. Clarkson, so it seemed that he was the one at Thomas’ shoulder. “You’re on the verge of the fourth stage of hypovolemic shock. I cannot deny I would prefer you in a hospital.”

“If you put him in the hospital, he’ll be found out.” Baxter seemed agitated, as if she’d been arguing with Clarkson about this for a while now. “He has to stay here.”

“I agree with Ms. Baxter.” Mrs. Hughes said.

“I cannot allow his condition to deteriorate any worse without fully admitting to negligence on my part.” Clarkson’s tone was bordering on irritation.

“Asylum…” Thomas whispered. He was hushed by several hands, mostly Baxter who just seemed to want to keep him quiet and calm.

“Thomas, if I was going to put you in an asylum, I would have run for the ward hours ago.” Clarkson assured him gently, putting a heavy hand upon his shoulder, “The only place I’m putting you is in a bed-“

“Your own bed.” Baxter added gently. “Where you belong.”

“I cannot have him on his own.” Clarkson disagreed. Thomas’ eyes fluttered closed, and a sudden up pitch of voices brought the conversation to a slight fault.

“Thomas, Thomas wake up!” Someone was popping him lightly in the cheek, but for all they hit him Thomas could not seem to open his eyes.

A sharp smell hit his nose and Thomas staggered awake, nearly retching at the scent of ammonia. He got half a glimpse of a smelling salt flask wiping out of sight and back into Dr. Clarkson’s pocket before Baxter was wiping his forehead again and Mrs. Hughes was rubbing his hand.

“I will only agree to keep him here if he is kept under close surveillance.” Dr. Clarkson argued. “For gods sake he can barely stay conscious. If he needs aid, it must be given to him promptly. He could die within the night.”

 _Yes god_ , Thomas thought in bleak hope, _Let it kill me tonight. Let there be no dawn_.

“He could stay in my room.” Andy spoke up, causing several people to look around. “Mr. Barrow’s been very good to me. I want to help if I can. I have a spare cot in my room, I can make it up right now… he can stay there as long as he needs.”

“That’s very kind of you Andrew.” Mrs. Hughes complimented. “But it’s up to Mr. Carson, not you.”

“I’ll allow it,” Mr. Carson gruffed, “At this point I feel we have no choice.”

It was difficult to say how long it took Andy to make up his room. Time had spiraled completely out of control, to the point where days and minutes could easily reverse given his state of consciousness. The only marking in time was that Clarkson stopped the fluid replacement, withdrawing the needle from his neck to taper his skin and seal the wound. Thomas caught sight of a truly enormous syringe when Clarkson pulled away, and wondered at how he’d not been howling in pain from the needle which looked closer to a nail than anything else. He kept wanting to close his eyes, feeling as if his heart rate was returning to normal and rendering him exhausted. Every time he did though, either Baxter or Mrs. Hughes would gently tap him in the face. Had he been more alert, Thomas would have screamed from the irritation. instead he merely slay slumped in his chair and said nothing. He could dimly register that he was in Mrs. Hughes’ sitting room. That he was at her side table. Everything else was a blur as Andy returned.

“Shall we get back to bed?” Clarkson advised, gentle as he took Thomas underneath the arm. Andy got him by the other, and together the pair of them all but hauled him up out of the chair. So weak and helpless was Thomas that it took everyone’s hands to move him. Mrs. Hughes helped him by the back while Baxter carefully clung to his side. Carson opened the door and kept firm watch as they slowly exited Mrs. Hughes sitting room and made for the stairs.

“How will we ever get him up?” Thomas heard Andy muse aloud.

“One step at a time.” Was Carson’s wise response.

Time slowed down, and so it was that Thomas lived his life on the stairs. Years passed, he was certain, as the methodical drag of his feet made for the steady march of time. He passed his youth on the first landing, knew adulthood in the second, and by the fourth was in his elderly years so that as they finally reached Andy’s room Thomas likened it to his funeral. There, made up, was Andy’s spare bed. Mrs. Hughes let go of Thomas’ back to walk around and turn down the covers. Clarkson and Andy both tried to make Thomas’ descent a smooth one, but so far gone was he that as his legs began to buckle towards the bed he fell forward in a landslide and nearly took Baxter with him. Slumped on the mattress, Thomas blacked out again just as someone lifted his legs and shifted them under the covers. They were pulled to his chest, his head positioned better on the pillow by helping hands. The last thing Thomas registered was Baxter’s soft voice.

“I’ll sit with him.”

“Thank you Ms. Baxter.” was Dr. Clarkson’s reply.

 

When Thomas woke next, it seemed to be daytime and everything was changed. The sounds of the house alive around him were distant, and a chair was pulled up to his bedside with the door to the hallway wide open. There, in his chair, was Mrs. Hughes, who sat working on a cross stitch and keeping a gentle eye. As she saw his eyes open, she smiled, setting her work aside in a time-worn canvas bag by her feet to reach forward and feel his forehead for temperature.

“How are we feeling?” Mrs. Hughes asked.

There was no adjective in the English language to describe Thomas’ state of horror and denial. So far gone was he that as he looked upon Mrs. Hughes he briefly considered begging her to kill him. But he knew she wouldn’t, because she was kind and believed in the good of man. She’d urge him onward, and only pity him more. It made him want to weep, for the fact that no one seemed to be listening to what he wanted. Whimpering softly, Thomas could not find the energy in him to cry. Instead he only made pathetic noises as Mrs. Hughes stroked his brow and kept his hair off his face.

“One hour at a time, Thomas.” She whispered softly, “One minute even, that’s all you have to do.”

 

Thomas did not know how long he remained awake, but soon he drifted off to sleep for when he came to again it was night time and Mrs. Hughes was gone. The chair that had been her perch was back by the wall, and briefly Thomas thought he was alone till he felt a warmth and weight beside him. The door to the hallway was open, the lights outside turned off. Now was the hour for sleep, with even the servant’s in bed, but someone was beside him and humming gently into his ear.

 _“Balance yourself like a bird of a beam in the air she goes… there she goes…”_ The voice soothed him, along with the smell of perfume and talcum powder. It seemed Baxter was beside him tonight, though across from Thomas, Andy was fast asleep in his own bed. Thomas tried to roll his head on his pillow, to see Baxter better in the dark. But he couldn’t, he was too weak. Instead, he could only lay in Baxter’s arms as she cradled his head upon the pillow and kept him warm at his side.

 _“Up, up, a little bit higher,”_ she sang in his ear, _“Oh my, the moon is on fire…”_

He faded out again, swept back to sleep by her lullaby.

 

The third time he woke, it was to Baxter and the daylight again.

But something was different. He was hot.

Before, Thomas had been cold, and had likened himself back into that icy bath where Edward held him tight. Now, Thomas felt like he was on fire, like he would surely drown in the flame just as he’d drowned in the tub. He gasped, groaning, desperate for water, for air, for ice- for anything cool that might quench his need. His eyes were heavy, a futile effort to open, but as he did he saw Baxter upon his guest chair darning a lace collar in her lap. When she realized he’d awoken and was groaning, she set the collar aside at once to care for him, bringing up a rag from his beside table to dab at his brow.

“Shh…” She wiped at his flaming temple, “There now.” It was freezing, practically like ice against his skin, and as the water dribbled down his forehead onto his temple Thomas wished he could lap it up. That he could simply drink it into his veins. Groaning he turned his head to the side, trying to catch a trickle of water with his tongue. It was a fruitless endeavor, causing him to moan; Baxter seemed to realize he was desperately thirsty and let go of the rag so that it lay limply upon his forehead. She took up a tea cup, half drunk and cool.

“I have some tea.” She whispered, her voice still sounding thunderously loud in Thomas’ ears, “Would you like to try and sip some?”

Desperate, he grunted, unable to even beg for tea. Baxter set her cup aside, reaching an arm deep beneath Thomas’ neck to cup him about the shoulders and help him rise. The act was volatile, making Thomas’ entire world spin in a heated blur as he moaned and sagged. She could barely hold him up, and instead let him rest against the head board as she took up her cup of tea again and set it against his lips.

The tea slipped through his parched lists, soothing his tongue and throat. But even as Thomas swallowed he knew he’d made a grave mistake. His stomach was already recoiling, warning him of bile soon to follow, and with the very last vestiges of strength he possessed Thomas jerked aside at the lest minute to keep from spewing on Baxter’s lap. Instead, he leaned over the bed and vomited beside her chair, the tea leaving his body along with everything else. He tried to stop, to gain some self control, but it was impossible. He vomited twice to collapse back against the bed, whimpering in embarrassment as Baxter dabbed patiently at his soiled chin and lips.

“Oh god-“ Thomas groaned, feeling another wave coming. Wiser, Baxter snatched up a trash-bin from Andy’s beside and offered it for Thomas to heave into. He vomited one last time, paused, took a deep shuddering breath, then fell back into his pillow once again.

“M’ so sorry-“ He whispered, horrified that she would now have to clean up his vomit on the floor. As if she hadn’t already done enough for his sake.

“It’s alright.” She assured him. He knew she was lying.

“M’ so so sorry.” He could hardly stay awake, his abandoned strength giving out entirely as he shuddered an enormous breath.

“It’s perfectly alright.” She whispered, and Thomas fell unconscious once more to the sound of her rhythmic breathing as she stroked his face.

He blinked, it was night, and Baxter was gone.

Once again, it seemed the house was sleeping around him. Next to him in his own bed, Andy was asleep, a still solid lump beneath his thin coverlet. Thomas realized with an internal distress that he desperately needed to urinate. Too proud to wake Andy from his sleep, he knew the only way he was going to pee was if he got out of the bed himself and drug himself to the toilet. There was no way in hell he was failing to commit suicide, vomiting on a floor, and peeing in a bed in the same week. One had to draw the line somewhere, and for Thomas Barrow this was the final edge of the curve. He would not degrade himself so low as to be found in a puddle of his own urine.

Taking his time, wary of over exhausting himself and ending up the worse, Thomas slowly rolled onto his side and pushed himself up on his forearms. Taking a minute to simply sit and breath, Thomas waited until he felt secure in his surroundings again before daring to rise. Even so, it was a wobbly, ugly affair, that mostly left him crippled with a swollen abdomen. He felt as if he could not walk properly, as if he were pregnant, and groaned as he cupped his sensitive stomach. He knew he was dehydrated, but tea from the kitchens was out of the question. He’d have to drink from the faucet in the bathroom. Perhaps there would be a cup by the sink he could use. The hallway was bare and quiet, giving Thomas ample room and time to make his way to the bathroom without being impeded by “helping” hands. Though his first few steps were solid and sure, by the time he’d gotten to the bathroom he felt like he might vomit again.

He thanked god the toilet wasn’t in the same unit as the tub. He didn’t think he could stand to look at his porcelain grave now.

It was difficult to close the door with his bandaged hands. The most he could do was lean upon the wood, forcing it to close with his weight alone. Determined to relieve his aching bladder, Thomas stumbled to the toilet and reached for the lid. Unfortunately as he bent over,another wave of nausea stooped upon him and he had to stop in his quest in order to vomit. Without the toilet open, he had only one choice. Vomit on the floor, or the sink. He turned, and heaved into the basin, vomiting twice before feeling secure. Acid made his tongue feel fuzzy and numb, and Thomas reached forward with both hands to fumbled with the sink tap. It took a great deal of finagling, but he finally managed to get the water going and immediately cupped his fingers beneath the icy water to gather a sip. He hissed, fingers trembling as he lapped up little beads from his palms. It reminded him too greatly of the icy grave he’d so longed to fill. He doubted he would ever enjoy cold water again.

Thomas tried once again for the toilet, but groaned as a sudden wave of exhaustion flooded his body. He had a desperate desire to lay down on the bathroom floor and nap, but point blank refused. He would piss in this toilet or he would die trying, by god.

Yet his second attempt for the toilet was paused by the sudden opening of the bathroom door. Andy was revealed, unkempt and disheveled with curly hair askew and brown eyes wide with fear.

“Mr. Barrow-!” He gaped at the sight of Thomas bent awkwardly over the toilet, pale and sweaty with trousers still done up.

“Just need… bathroom.” Thomas croaked. Andy took a step forward, nervous but determined.

“Let me help you.” He urged, offering his hands forward as if he made to support Thomas while he took a piss.

“Andy…” Thomas groaned, wishing he had just a little bit more strength to claim so that he could bloody well empty his bladder and go back to bed. “For god’s sake-“

“Well- I mean-“ Andy fumbled, clearly just as embarrassed as he, “You nearly fainted just now! I ought to help you.”

“No.” Thomas ground out, jaw clenched in anger. He had to close his eyes, forcing himself to take deep slow breathes lest he faint. Andy paused, unsure of what to do as Thomas continued to clutch as the lid of the toilet and the lip of the sink.

“…What do you want me to do, Mr. Barrow?” He asked, “I can’t let you fall over or be alone-“

“Just-“ Thomas mumbled, desperately trying for a solution, “Stand outside the door. I’ll be there in five minutes. Okay?” though it was sure to be more like ten if he had trouble with his trouser clasp.

“I shouldn’t.” Andy just kept shaking his head, nervous and pale.

“Andy!” Thomas protested, too weak to argue.

“I’m not supposed to!” Andy begged, wringing his hands before himself like Thomas still held all the cards in his hands, “Mrs. Hughes and Ms. Baxter would have my guts for gizzard if they found out I left you alone.”

“then just- just turn around.” Thomas beseeched, desperate to hang onto his dignity for as long as he could. He’d already been found in a tub of his own blood and vomited on Andy’s floor. The last thing he wanted Andy to do was to see him take a leak. “Please, I beg of you.”

The word ‘beg’ had an odd effect on Andy, as if he could hardly believe Thomas said it at all. Turning away, Andy crossed his shoulders over his chest but refused to move an inch out of the room.

“Fine.” Andy grumbled, sounding none too pleased about any of it. “But after this straight back to bed.”

Thomas conceded minor defeat, returning to the toilet and focusing his attentions solely on lifting the lid and undoing his trouser clasp. He was still wearing the trousers he’d put on in his last minute bid to flee the abbey, and noted as he unhooked them with delicate care that they were damp to the touch with sweat. They needed to be shed entirely, and he resolved to do so when he was back in bed. As he emptied his bladder, Thomas could not help but sigh in relief. He flushed, and made to wash his hands- but something odd was happening in his stomach. The lack of urine seemed to have caused his intestines to churn, and Thomas groaned as he vomited once again into the sink. He closed his eyes, unwilling to see the world spin, but was suddenly steadied by Andy’s hands upon his shoulders.

“Do you need medicine?” Andy asked, still sounding quite nervous.

“No.” Thomas whispered. If they were on the subject of what he needed- he needed a different life. To have been born with a stranger’s brain and heart- to be able to see the world through better eyes. This was impossible, he knew; he could not live right. He could not even die right, it seemed.

Andy helped him to stumble back to bed, his hands resolutely upon his shoulders. As Thomas was laid back in his borrowed bed, he felt a great exhaustion overtake him. He was asleep again before Andy had even returned to his own bed.

 

The next time he woke, it was not by choice.

Someone was rubbing his shoulders, where it seemed he was laying on his side.

“Come on. Sit up.” Came the soft but stern voice of Baxter. She rubbed at his shoulder, forcing him awake, and Thomas’ world spun as he opened his eyes to see Baxter sitting in his guest chair with a little card table set up beside her. It was barely big enough to hold a tray, but worked perfectly for the steaming bowl and cup of tea that sat atop it. Thomas spotted a cloister of biscuits rester on the tea saucer and knew Baxter was going to attempt to make him eat. He couldn’t bear the thought after vomiting on the floor, and groaned to roll away. Damn her if she didn’t chase him with her hands, forcing him back around despite his weak protests. She forced him to sit up, pulling his arms and primping his pillows so that as he fell back he rested upright. The light was making his head pound, and he knew it was day. He groaned again, turning his face this way and that to try and get away from the disturbance- Baxter still wouldn’t let him.

“Let’s try and eat.” She urged.

Thomas pinched his eyes open and shut, unable to fully look without getting a headache. He noticed that Baxter had a bucket sitting at her feet and knew exactly what it was for. He shook his head, desperate to keep from vomiting again, but Baxter would not listen.

“Come on.” She urged, taking the steaming bowl in her hands- it was chicken soup he saw- with a wide spoon she offered him broth. Admittedly it smelt delicious, but Thomas was so far gone in nausea that he could not stand the scent and gagged. Baxter pressed the spoon against his parched lips even as he turned his head away- as a bead of broth passed his lips Thomas’ tongue yearned to taste more. Despite his desperation for dignity, for sleep, he opened his mouth and allowed Baxter’s spoon to pass. He ate slowly, spoon after spoon, but ten minutes didn’t come and go before nausea set in again. He grimaced, pulling back, but Baxter offered him her bucket instead and he vomited up the newly swallowed soup inside. As soon as he was finished, Thomas felt hungrier than ever, and gladly accepted the warm tea she offered. It was herbal, something perhaps to help sooth his stomach. After he had swallowed a few mouthfuls, she offered him more soup broth, and he swallowed it greedily. She even gave him a noodle or two, followed by a steamed carrot that tasted oddly sweet. When she tried to offer him chicken however, Thomas had to decline. He could feel the nausea coming back again, and stretched out a shaking hand for her basket. She gave it at once, still holding onto his bowl of soup, and Thomas vomited three more times. When he rose again, he could not bear to eat anymore and simply fell back upon his pillow. Baxter tried to offer him another spoon but Thomas shook his head. Sighing in slight defeat, she set his soup bowl aside and took back her bucket.

He felt her pull his blankets up a little better on his chest; in the darkness beneath his eye lids, Thomas hid from the world and pretended to be asleep. It was the only defense left to him anymore.

A clinking of cutlery later, it seemed she’d set his soup and tea aside to try for another bit of nourishment instead. But it wasn’t a biscuit she offered him; it was poetry.

 _“Half a league, half a league, half a league onward, all in the valley of Death rode the six hundred.”_ She read. If she was hoping for him to be listening, she would be sorely disappointed. Thomas was almost asleep, exhausted from his attempt at eating lunch.

_“Forward, the Light Brigade! Charge for the guns!” he said. Into the valley of Death rode the six hundred.”_

_“My darling…”_ whispered a voice in Thomas’ ear, both close and terribly far away, _“My darling, my darling, my darling…”_

 

 

Returning back to normalcy in regards to eating and sleeping was a difficult task. Several days passed Thomas by, and soon it was Friday afternoon. Thomas sat in bed, confined there by several orders (given from Carson, Mrs. Hughes, Ms. Baxter, and even Lord Grantham himself). He was untrusted with even the most menial task, and all sharp or difficult objects (such as pens and even paperclips) had been removed from Andy’s room. Thomas was only allowed to shave with Andy or Carson watching, and as soon as he was finished his razor was confiscated from him. Back to bed he was ordered, where he sat now reading Baxter’s book of poetry in her absence. He tried desperately not to think about the horrific loneliness that sat within his breast, begging him to try suicide again. He felt an odd sense of numbness that kept him from screaming hysterically every time he realized he was alive. He knew one day, one hour, that numbness would run out and he would attempt suicide again. He was no stranger to his fate, and understood quite calmly that despite everyone’s procrastinations to keep him alive… one day he would be successful and die. He was almost spiteful about it.

 _“Forward, the Light Brigade!”_ Thomas read, eyes flicking back and forth across the pages of Baxter’s loaned book, _“Was there a man dismayed? Not though the soldier knew Someone had blundered. Theirs not to make reply, Theirs but to do and die. Into the valley of Death Rode the six hundred.”_

“There’s but to do and die.” Thomas read aloud, thinking of Edward and that icy bath. If only the others had read this book. Maybe then they would have understood and not bothered to save him.

Yet as Thomas continued to read, there was a gentle knock upon Andy’s door and he looked up from his book to find Lady Mary of all people upon the threshold with George in hand. He was carrying, weirdly enough, an orange.

“May we come in?” Mary offered, her voice disturbingly gentle. Thomas feared her presence in his room, of what it might mean, but kept his face stoically straight as George left his mother’s side to toddle over to Thomas’ bed. He offered the orange, and Thomas’ heart constricted painfully.

“Hellow Mista Bawwow.” George offered him a toothy grin, “Here you are to make you feel bettah-“ he handed Thomas the orange, he set his book down to accept it at once. It was smooth and cool in his hands, smell succulently of citrus and reminding him of pleasant summer days. Charmed, Thomas smiled as George made to sit on Andy’s stripped bed (the maids were washing the sheets), and it gave him pause when he realized that George’s presence- George’s innocence- had given him his first moment of happiness since his attempted suicide.

Sod the bowl of broth, five minutes with George Crawley perked him up right good and proper.

“Thank you very much, Master George.” Thomas murmured, letting the orange roll in his pale palms. He decided he would savor that orange, smell it, hold it, and finally eat it. He’d suck the juice out of each piece and allow it to fill him up.

“We want you to get better Barrow, truly,” Mary said, though Thomas hardly believed her, “And no one more than Master George.”

 

Now that Thomas could believe, and he offered George the smallest sweetest smile that George happily returned. “At least I’ve got one friend, eh?” Thomas said. George nodded, quite certain in his affections. Thomas wished he could have taken George into his arms. Wished he could have sat for hours in his borrowed bed stroking George’s fine blonde hair and reading him stories. He would have shared his orange with George, slice by slice, if only society could allow it. He suddenly found himself loathing the nanny, with a passionate jealousy for all the time that she got to spend with the children. If only he could have had _her_ job.

“Have you been lonely?” Mary asked, and Thomas was surprised at the sincere affection in her voice. He couldn’t say how they’d become odd friends- perhaps through both loving George or Thomas’ defense of her against that ridiculous Gwen’s lies. Either way Mary seemed oddly affectionate towards him now, which made Thomas wonder what he’d done right… or wrong.

“If I have I’ve only myself to blame.” Thomas mumbled, repeating the age old wisdom that had been whispered in his ear since his childhood. “I’ve done and said things. I don’t know why… Can’t stop myself.” He pursed his lips, thinking of all the actions he’d committed against Bates alone. It was a wonder he still had his job in this damnable house. “Now I’m paying the price.”

Now he would have to live with his shame for as long as it took to find a way back to a knife again.

“Strange.” Mary admitted, and Thomas glanced up, curious to see her shake her head, “I could say the same.”

He was on the verge of asking her way, impertinent or no, but was interrupted by the sound of heels on the floor followed swiftly by the arrival of Anna.

“Mr. Carson has told them you’ve got the-“ She bore a tray, no doubt his lunch, and looked taken aback at the sight of Lady Mary in his shared room. She stopped dead, sentence unfinished, but Thomas already knew the rest.

Carson’s lie was a dull, witless thing. “The flue.” he mumbled, unamused, “I know.”

“Beg your pardon, M’lady.” Anna murmured, amazed that Lady Mary had thought to look in on Thomas. For some reason Thomas found himself wishing that he could scream at Anna, tell her to stop bloody gawking and leave him be. The only person to his knowledge to have sat with him in his convalescence was Baxter. He supposed it must be nice, to know someone had attempted suicide but care nothing for how they were getting on. Anna’s word was a powdered, pampered thing in Thomas’ opinion. What did she know of grief or strife?

 _That’s not fair_ , a voice whispered in his head, _She’s suffered just as much as you_.  
Mary seemed to notice Thomas’ expression darkening, and held out her hand for George to take. He hopped off the bed, toddling for the door, and Mary said, “We’re going, Barrow. And I hope things improve for you… I really do.”

Thomas couldn’t believe the sincerity in her voice. It astounded him.

“I’d say the same if it weren’t impertinent, M’lady.”Thomas murmured.

“Goodbye, Mista Bawwow.” George said, waving a pudgy hand after him as he left with his mother. Thomas watched him go, suddenly grief stricken for George’s absence.

“Goodbye, Master George.” Thomas replied, praying Mary would not hear the desperate desire for affection in his voice. It was already gruesome enough that she knew his shame. Mary left, and Anna watched her go, careful to balance her tray with practiced hands as she stepped forward and perched it upon Thomas’ lap. Thomas saw it was a bowl of beef stew, with a cup of chamomile tea and a buttered roll.

“What on earth was that about?” Anna asked, looking back to the door. Thomas gave her no reply, suddenly finding himself oddly mute. Instead of being irritated or disappointed, Anna seemed to understand, and instead gestured to his plate with a small quirky smile.

“You’re to eat all of that.” she declared, “Ms. Baxter’s orders.”

Thomas nodded, knowing full well that if he didn’t eat enough to her liking Baxter was bound to stomp up here and shove the damn spoon down his throat herself. Instead he looked to his lap where the orange rolled about, thinking he should peel it. His fingernails were too short and his wrists too weak to do it by hand, though-

“Would you like me to peel that for you?” Anna asked, but Thomas shook his head knowing full well there should be a knife amongst his bundled silverware. Yet as he unfolded his napkin, Thomas saw to his dismay that his butter knife was gone so that only a spoon was left. he looked up at Anna, who gave him a tight lipped smile to offer her hand for the orange.

So it seemed he wasn’t even trusted with a dull knife anymore.

Hot shame unfurled in Thomas’ stomach, making him nauseas as Anna took his orange and peeled it with a knife from her pocket. It was his butter knife, nabbed from the set- it seemed Mrs. Patmore was yet to know of his fall from grace, or he doubted she’d have bothered with the butter knife. The smell of citrus became thick upon the stale morning air as Anna finished peeling the orange, but Thomas took the hull from her before she could throw it in the waste bin. He wanted to savor it, to keep it for as long as possible. Like so many other times in his life, this one little bit of happiness would have to do.

“Here.” Anna said as she handed him back his freshly peeled orange. He brought it up to his nose with both hands, inhaling deeply. Instantly his mouth began to salivate.

“Eat up.” She urged, heading back for the door. She flashed him a small smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes, “Or Ms. Baxter will be up here to scold you.”

Though it might have been shamefully rude, Thomas paid Anna no mind. Instead, he focused on his orange and kept inhaling its scent. When he finally made to peel it apart, Anna was long gone. The soft shucking sound of flesh coming away from flesh was followed by the slightly bitter taste of the skin in his mouth. It gave way as he bit down, a sudden gush of fruity acid igniting his taste buds. It made him think of Christmas time, of being allowed a slice of orange amongst his many siblings. All at once, he was a child again, this time stealing the orange to himself and leaving none for his brothers and sister. In youth he’d been forced to share. As an adult, he finally had the power to tell others to go fuck themselves.

The rest of his lunch felt bland and tasteless by comparison.

Thomas fell asleep with the tray in his lap, clutching onto the skin of the orange so that he could smell it even with his head on the pillow. When he woke again, the tray was gone, as was most of the peel- but once tiny shiv had remained untaken, clutched tightly in Thomas’ palm and hidden from view. For that, Thomas treasured it, and at once made to put it in his bedside drawer so that no one could throw it away.

He sat there in bed, gazing listlessly up at the ceiling for god knows how long. There was a speckle of mold in the right hand corner- Thomas doubted even Andy had noticed it. There were also a few cracks around the doorframe. One crack in particular looked a bit like rabbit. Thomas found his gaze repeatedly drawn back to it, and started to develop a story in his mind for the rabbit to center around. Its name, he decided, was Loda. She was a beautiful rabbit that lived in the alps, dancing about in the snowy skies where mountains towered over all else. He was just imagining her jumping in the snow, chasing clouds, when there came a soft knock upon his door. It opened to reveal Mrs. Hughes, who gave him a kindly smile and stepped inside to shut the door.

“How are we feeling?” She asked.

Thomas did not deign the question with an answer, instead closing his eyes momentarily as Mrs. Hughes took a seat on Thomas’ guest chair. Like Ms. Baxter before her, she put her hands on her lap and tried for conversation.

“Mrs. Patmore said you ate most of your lunch.” Mrs. Hughes sounded quite pleased, “Do you think you could hold down some dinner?”

Thomas shook his head, imagining that to test his luck with two large meals with put him back with a waste basket full of vomit. Mrs. Hughes frowned, reaching forward to tug at his duvet so that it might better cover his body. She patted his bed spread, sighing.

“Lady Mary had some exciting news today.” She declared, “She’s to wed Mr. Talbot tomorrow.”

That made for quite a change. Thomas immediately thought of George who would no doubt look to Henry Talbot as a father from now on. It might even result in George seeking him out less often, which made Thomas’ stomach twist. He looked away from Mrs. Hughes, desperate to keep his shredded dignity intact for as long as possible. She pressed on, her tone much more sensitive than before.

“She wants you there.” Mrs. Hughes explained, “I came to see if you thought you’d be up for it? It’d be quite a walk into the village but the air might do you good, and we could always take the wagonette. If you’re up to it, that is…. I want you to stand beside me and Mr. Carson during the ceremony. What do you say?”

Ah, the joys of servitude. The fact of the matter was that Thomas wanted absolutely nothing to do with weddings, with joy or bliss. He wanted to hide in this room under his covers until he forgot the meaning of existence. But this wasn’t an option he could take if Lady Mary had personally invited him, certainly not after she’d deigned him worthy of a visit. Bringing George to his bedside had been a blessing- one that he fully doubted Lady Mary could comprehend, but he would take it none the less. In all the attempts to save him and nourish him, George’s visit had been the one instance of healing he could gather. The taste of orange was still upon his tongue.

Thomas nodded, still unwilling to speak. To betray his silence would feel like wounding himself all over again, admitting to being alive and failing at his suicide. He didn’t want to talk anymore.

He wanted to die, and only that.

 

Time dragged on, a dance of sun and moon, and when it rose on Saturday morning it still found Thomas laying in bed looking at Loda the Rabbit. Andy roused from sleep to wash and dress, keeping a wary eye on Thomas as he shaved and stropped his razor. Thomas rose from bed, taking his time lest he fall right over into the second bed or wardrobe. With Andy’s help he dressed in a suit, careful to button his shirt sleeves over the thick wrappings of his wrists. Combing his hair in the mirror, carefully dolloping in Brilliantine, Thomas wanted to vomit at his reflection. He looked just the same as he had the day of his attempted suicide- the same as all the days before that. He existed in a miasma- he knew that now- and though Andy might be able to look at him and see a difference Thomas wasn’t fooled. There was no difference between him in the present, the past, the future- there was no change. He doubted he’d been born different- that he’d appeared from his mother’s womb just as broken and damaged as he was now in adulthood.

He wished his father had strangled him in his cot.

Shaving was embarrassing. Andy stood by his shoulder, practically breathing down his neck as he drug the razor down the columns of his neck. His fingers twitched anticipating the moment when Thomas might attempt to slit his throat instead. It was an exhausting business and one he did not appreciate as he washed his face clean of soap and buttoned up the last loops of his collar. Yet as he looked up to pat his face dry, Thomas was taken aback by the shocking appearance of Edward in Andy’s mirror. He was standing by Thomas’ right shoulder, mirroring Andy’s stance, and wore his best army suit clean of fuzz. Worst of all, his eyes were clear of acid- clear and brightest blue… Like the very ocean were pooled in his brain. His maroon tie felt oddly tight at his throat, like he was attempting to choke himself. His toes felt pinched in his shoes. His wrists itched mercilessly. Thomas swallowed, eyes wide as he watched Edward’s every move and wondered if he’d gone insane.

“You look smart.” Edward declared, looking him up and down with pride. Thomas closed his eyes, opening his mouth to tell Andy that he could not go to the wedding- that he was too ill- but when he opened his eyes again Edward was gone and his face was still damp to be dried.

“Something wrong?” Andy asked, unsure. Thomas shook his head, bitterly frightened as he dabbed his face dry and folded Andy’s towel over his bureau drawer. As he left Andy’s room, biding Loda a silent goodbye, he wished for nothing more than sleep. To lay in his bed forever and never be bothered again- least of all by love and weddings.

When he passed the washroom, he paused only slightly in his step. For one tiny moment he considered rushing into the room, locking the door and strangling himself with his tie before he could suffer another damning blow. Perhaps Edward was beckoning him.

But Andy noticed it, and took him by the elbow to gently steer him away.

They descended the stairs, Thomas all the while recalling how difficult it had been the day of his suicide to get down the stairs- to try and escape the Abbey. It made been like moving through mud, and a declaration to his slow recovery that he was able to walk down now without pause or sweat. The whole time they walked, Thomas wondered if he’d cracked- if he was just waiting to collapse and merely being held together by the bandages at his wrists. When they were unraveled would Thomas unravel too?

He walked through the halls of the downstairs like a ghost, passing straight by the kitchen where Mrs. Patmore and Daisy were fixing their hats in a mirror by a writing desk. He walked past the servant’s hall where the Bates were preening each other and Mr. Moseley was attempting to woo Ms. Baxter. He even walked past both Mrs. Hughes and Mr. Carson’s office, mindless to those who might have offered up his name or urged to see him better. Instead he headed for the back door which the hall boy had left open, and stepped through it out onto the back step- such a familiar cradle. Here was the birthplace of his bitterness- how many nights had he sat out here smoking while the others stayed inside laughing? How often had he longed to join them, but refused to answer his heart’s call. Instead staying outside in the cold till he himself was just as frigid inside. The table where he’d sat cleaning clocks and smoking cigarettes with Ms. O’Brien was abandoned, and Thomas found himself drawn to the bench as if by a magnet. Sheer habit alone compelled him to perch there, to sit and watch as the wagonette was brought around by the lone remaining chauffeur for the servants to pile into.

He stared at it for a moment, and pondered commandeering it to drive to the train station. He could attempt to sneak onto the train- to flee Downton and its prison. But the moment slipped him by as the back door opened again. In its shadow was Baxter, who stepped out to join him at the table.

He could recall standing outside with her in the cool night air. Watching her ponder over Coyle as he smoked a cigarette and warned her he was now as impenetrable as he might appear.

If only she’d listened to him.

“I’m glad you’re coming with us.” Baxter murmured. She reached out and had the audacity to rub at his back, straightening his jacket upon his shoulders, “You look smart.”

 _“You look smart.”_ Edward had said in the mirror.

Thomas closed his eyes, his memory flooding over with images of Edward in that bathtub. Of Edward holding him in the dark, cradling him against his chest.

_“My darling… My darling, my darling, my darling-“_

He rose from the bench, suddenly feeling like he could not breath. In an attempt to get more air he tugged at the knot of his tie, stumbling forward a few paces as he started walking towards the wagonette. He didn’t even know where he was going.

He could see it now… Edward’s grave being lowered into the cold infertile ground of the hospital courtyard. A final resting place for those the church would not accept. He could see himself standing at Edward’s grave side, watching that box be covered up with dirt. If tears had slipped from his eyes, Sybil Crawley had not mentioned it. She’d stood at his side and watched all the while, miserable in her inability to save a desperate soul.

 _“Her kindness changed me life,”_ that insufferable Gwen had said over her undeserved luncheon.

But it hadn’t changed Edwards.  
And it hadn’t changed his.

“Wait-“ Baxter’s voice drug him mercilessly back to the cold and sterile present where he wandered aimlessly about the courtyard. She’d risen from the bench to join him at his side, and was trying to tug him back to the table. “Let’s get the others first before we go?”

“Just let me go, Ms. Baxter.” Thomas muttered, tugging his arm free of her hold. He didn’t need her tethering him to life.

“Where do you want to go to?” Baxter asked, ever the one for irritating questions. Thomas had no answers for her, and remained resolutely silent even as she clung to his side. When he feigned to answer her question, she pulled him back to the table and he was forced to sit once more at the bench as she resumed rubbing his back. He felt more like an invalid than ever in her arms, and once more longed for the comfort and quiet of his room. For Loda the Rabbit who he could dream was dancing through the snow.

Others were drifting out of the house now.

Andy walked right past him, Daisy on his arm. The pair of them headed for the wagonette with Mrs. Patmore in tow, none of them caring to spare Thomas a backward glance.

The Bates were next, once again arm in arm, laughing and chatting about their plans for the future and their excitement for Lady Mary’s happiness. Neither looked back at him.

Then came Mr. Moseley while Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes locked the back door. He alone paused by the table, but not for Thomas’ sake. Indeed, he didn’t even care to look at him, instead extending his arm to Ms. Baxter to say, “Shall we go, Ms. Baxter?”

Baxter paused, looking at Thomas, and Mr. Moseley sent him the darkest look that could only be described as jealousy. For reasons he could not understand, it burned him.

“Go on,” Mrs. Hughes had approached, “I’ll take him.”

“Alright.” Baxter said, letting go of Thomas’ arm to rise up from the bench and accept Mr. Moseley’s. Thomas did not miss the smile on her face as she walked away- how she laughed and clung to her defender to decorate his side. As they approached the wagonette Mr. Moseley helped her up, ever the gallant white knight. Mrs. Hughes was tugging him gently at the elbow, plucking him up from his seat, and though he did not want to he followed her touch.

“Shall we go?” She urged, wrapping her arm around Thomas’.

Thomas did not feign her question with a response, instead following her silently to the wagonette with Mr. Carson in tow. As they reached the stoop of the car, she urged him up. Unlike the others, who had been accepted helping hands by those already inside, no one attempted to help Thomas up. Not even Baxter or Andy; they were far too engrossed in their respective partner’s chatting. Instead, Carson entered the wagonette first and helped Mrs. Hughes up who in turn helped Thomas. She did not grab his hand, instead tugging at his elbow, and it was only through her strength that he was finally able to clamber onto the wagonette. He clung to the tilt as their driver snapped the horses reigns, and as their wagonette rolled away Thomas found himself looking (without reason) up at the sky. It was cloudy, overcast. He doubt he would ever see the sun again until the day he decided to kill himself once more. Surely that had been god’s call to him… to give him what he most wanted on the day he finally decided to do humanity some good.

As they carried along, Thomas’ memory and imagination drifted with the cool open air. He thought of Edward, endlessly. Of how he’d been held in that bathtub, and for reasons he could not comprehend he imagined dancing with Edward. Imagined the pair of them like fiends, doing a reel atop Edward’s grave in the hospital courtyard. Edward would wear his suspenders with his shirtsleeves rolled up- Thomas would leap into his arms. Edward would spin him around, holding him aloft, and Thomas would cling to his neck as the air sailed through his swinging legs. He held to that image as the wagonette rattled on, carving it into full detail even as they passed the hospital itself-

“Thomas!” A voice shouted aloud. Startled from his imaginings, Thomas glanced up, wondering who on the road had called to him. Horrified, he gaped open mouth at the sight of Edward running full mill through the hospital courtyard trying to keep up with the wagonette. He rose from his seat, causing several pairs of hands to shoot out to keep him steady as Edward kept running.

“You know what to do, Thomas!” Edward shouted, leaping over a tombstone to keep up with the wagonette, “Bring out the board! I believe in you my darling!”

Thomas gasped, wanting to disembark the wagonette if only to search the hospital courtyard. But their wagonette was pulling around the bend and Edward was cut off as they curved around a cluster of trees. Thomas made a noise of clenched despair, looking to the back of the wagonette whose tilt was raised blocking off the exit. Hands were still pulling at him, urging him back into his seat- Thomas looked around to see Mrs. Hughes, very grim faced as she and Mr. Carson both urged Thomas to sit down once more on her right side.

“Sit down, Thomas.” She reprimanded him sharply. He did so, slumping into his seat. It was only then that he realized how many people were looking at him, and none of them kindly. Mr. Bates and Mr. Moseley were glaring dully. Mrs. Patmore looked very sour indeed, as if she likened him to a disobedient child in need of a smack. Daisy just looked confused as always, though hardly concerned as she resumed talking to Andy. Even Ms. Baxter looked wary, returning to her talk with Mr. Moseley to drag his glare away.

“Why did you stand up?” Mrs. Hughes asked, her tone terse but gentle.

“…I saw someone in the courtyard.” Thomas admitted. “I-“

“Thomas,” She chided him in his ear so that no one else could hear, “There was no one in that courtyard. Remember yourself or you’ll worry the others.”

Frightened, Thomas clutched at the loosened knot of his maroon tie. He wished he could rip it off. Wished he could leap from the wagonette and run flat out back for the hospital courtyard.

“Steady on.” She urged, patting his arm in a mothering fashion as he looked down at his lap. “Steady on.”

Thomas did not speak for the rest of the day.


	3. Knife Going In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The statistics become too much to bear. Thomas spirals yet again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warning: This chapter will contain graphic references to suicide attempts and minor references to eating disorders. If this upsets you or triggers you, please be aware that it is included.**

The problem with getting up and going to Lady Mary’s wedding was that when he arrived back at the house, it seemed impossible to return to the state of near-coma that he’d been drifting through for three days. Sunday was spent fidgeting, unable to gain solace from Loda the Rabbit as Thomas relived Edward’s waltz through the hospital courtyard on speed reel. Every time he closed his eyes, he could see Edward leaping over a tombstone, dashing through a gap between two more, curled hair blowing in his man-made wind and shouting Thomas’ name. It made it almost impossible to sleep, gathering him about three hours of good rest on Sunday night as Andy lay snoring in the bed next to him. Spread eagled, staring at the ceiling, Thomas could only lay and breath. Could only listen to the marbles skittering around in his brain. They pinged and dropped, rattled and rolled. Like dice jiggling in a cup, they wouldn’t let him be. 

My darling… Edward whispered. My darling, my darling, my darling. 

The world made his nauseas, and all the people in it tense. Venturing downstairs was like walking through a snake pit, with vipers licking at his heels if he strayed for too long under a doorway or dared to sit in a room already containing more than two people. Ever since Gwen’s fucking luncheon, a shared atmosphere of ignorance had swept over those that he worked with so though Thomas lived and worked amongst him, they did not notice him. The only exception was Ms. Baxter, but after nearly vomiting in her lap and being forced to endure her soup spoon, Thomas was almost physically repulsed by her. By all of them. Even Mrs. Hughes’ kindly smile made him want to scream for how fake it was. Nothing was genuine in Downton Abbey. The good were not good. The kind were not kind. At best they were aware of the suffering of others around them… but that didn’t mean they did anything to stop it. Most of the times they just stared and watched. 

And listened to the marbles rolling. 

On Monday morning, desperate to sooth his itching anxiety, Thomas found himself on a personal mission. He’d searched each room of the downstairs for his pillaged items. Left uninterrupted by those who didn’t want to talk to him, Thomas had gone through both his and Andy’s room looking desperately for both his personal clock repair kit, his old valet box (which contained several pairs of scissors and needles)… and his razor. 

Above all his razor. Thomas wanted it back like mad. It practically made his skin itch.   
He also wanted out of Andy’s room. He refused to sleep in there one more night. 

Thomas had been in the middle of checking the boot room when he’d been interrupted by the Bates. He’d left at once, unwilling to look Anna in the eye or deal with Bates’ violent glare. He knew checking the pantry was out of the question without Mrs. Hughes’ key (and doubted she’d give it to him). Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes’ offices were probably the smartest targets, given how many cupboards in there could be locked. This left very few places to check save for the boiler room, the linen cupboard, and the livery room. Thomas had been in the process of opening the door to the boiler room when he’d been stopped by the sudden arrival of Mrs. Hughes. She seemed to be looking for him, her keys bouncing upon her large hip as she stalked up the long corridor to the back door and pinned him by the boiler room door. She wore her kindliest smile, which made Thomas want to scream, but when she spoke to him her voice was incredibly soft. For some reason loud noises were oddly jarring to him, to the point where he could not bear to be in a room enduring loud conversation. Mercifully for him, people hated him so much in the house that the minute he entered a room most conversation stopped. 

“Mr. Barrow, it’s good to see you downstairs.” Mrs. Hughes started. Thomas didn’t know how to reply, so instead he kept silent and made to open the boiler room door. In a startling move, however, Mrs. Hughes’ withered hand shot out to snag the handle so that despite the door being unlocked he could not open it. 

“I hate to bother you when you’re so obviously on a quest, but what are you doing exactly?” Mrs. Hughes asked, not unkindly. Thomas let his hand slip from the doorknob so that their fingers were no longer brushing, and instead of answering Mrs. Hughes turned for the linen closet. Now that he thought about it, he supposed no one in their room mind would hide burnable objects in a room with a massive furnace. As he entered in the linen pantry, he began to open each cupboard and shift neatly folded linens to the left and right in order to see what lay behind them. Mrs. Hughes entered after him, closing the door behind him so that they were now alone together. 

“Mr. Barrow.” She began again, this time her voice slightly more stern, “I hate to be a bother, but I really must insist. What are you doing?” 

Eager to be left alone, Thomas finally spoke. His voice was clipped with cold contempt, “I’m looking for my things.” 

“What things?” Mrs. Hughes asked gently. 

“The things you took.” Was Thomas’ only reply. It was explanation enough. 

“Well they’re not in here.” Mrs. Hughes admitted. “They’re in Mr. Carson’s office, locked up in his safe.” 

Thomas, caught mid-process of moving several folded tablecloths, let out a terse sigh and shifted them back to their original position in the cupboard. He closed the shelf door with a soft ‘snap’, and turned to go, but was stopped once again by Mrs. Hughes who stepped in front of the exit and gave him another terse smile. 

“I’m afraid you can’t have them back.” Mrs. Hughes said gently, “Not yet.” 

“… I’m tired of this conversation.” Thomas warned. “Now please let me get on.” 

But Mrs. Hughes wouldn’t budge from the door, her eyes almost beginning to forge a glare as she took in Thomas’ appearance. Though he’d been able to shave under Andy’s watchful eye and had combed his hair, Thomas knew he still did not look the same. He wondered if there was something about his face now which insisted to others that he was a survivor of attempted suicide. Maybe in the way his eye twitched at the corner, or how a permanent line lay at the corners of his mouth. 

“Why do you want them back?” Mrs. Hughes asked. “Will you answer me that at least?” 

“I want it normal.” Thomas said, which was the best sentence he could get out under the building pressure in his brain. Speaking to Mrs. Hughes was grating his nerves, which were as soft as dampened cheese, and making him feel on the verge of vomiting. He suddenly longed to be alone, to be upstairs once more in Andy’s room secluded from the world with only Loda the Rabbit for company. So long as Mrs. Hughes barred the door, he could not escape, and it only made him more paranoid. Mrs. Hughes seemed to register that he was on edge, and spoke in the softest of tones as she replied. 

“You want to be in your old room, able to go about your business by yourself, yes-?” She offered. Thomas jerked his head into a quick nod. 

“I’ll concede to you being in your room. I know you value your privacy. But I cannot give you back your things until I feel for certain that you won’t be tempted.” Mrs. Hughes said. “You’re still in a fragile state-“ 

“I’m fine-“ Thomas ground out, but Mrs. Hughes shook her head. She would not be swayed. 

“Thomas, do not lie to me.” Mrs. Hughes murmured, “Not when I pulled you out of that bathtub.” 

They stared at each other for a long moment, the pair of them sizing each other up. Mrs. Hughes offered Thomas a weary smile, one which was a far throw away from the usual sweet smile she wore with the others. Despite the sadness at its corners, it seemed more genuine to Thomas and oddly soothed him. He swallowed, looking away and out the window towards the back courtyard. The window as grimy, and in need of a clean. 

Mrs. Hughes reached out and touched his elbow. The fingers upon his shirtsleeves were so unfamiliar that it scared him senseless, making him jump as he jerked his arm out of her grip. She pursed her lips, letting her hand drop back to her side. 

“… I’m sorry.” She said after a long moment of reflective silence. “I should have warned you I wanted to touch you.” 

“Why?” Thomas asked. 

“It was disrespectful of your boundaries-“ 

“Why do you want to touch me?” Thomas corrected her. She caught his eye again, this time unsure as she searched his face for something she could not find. 

“… Because I care about you.” She finally replied. Thomas did not believe her. 

She looked down at her shoes, worn at the edges and in need of fresh soles. When she looked back up, her tone had resumed some level of normalcy though it was still incredibly soft. 

“Mr. Carson wants you.” She explained. “He’s waiting in his office.” 

She stepped aside from the door at last, and Thomas exited at once. The linen cupboard was only a slight walk away from Mr. Carson’s office, which lay around a corner nestled next door to Mrs. Hughe’s office and across from a downstairs lavatory. The door was already open, so Thomas simply walked inside instead of knocking to find Mr. Carson behind his desk going through a mountain of paperwork. He glanced up at the sound of Thomas’ footsteps, and sat his pen back down in the ink holder at once to wipe his hands upon an old handkerchief. He stowed it back in his breast pocket, lacing his fingers over his rotund belly to fix Thomas with an expectant eye. 

“Mr. Barrow.” Carson addressed him, “I trust you’re recovering?” 

Thomas had absolutely no idea how to respond to that. Both options were damning in their own way, and so Thomas was left slack jawed as he opened his mouth and fumbled slightly for words. Mr. Carson seemed to realize some things couldn’t yet be verbalized, and so instead of embarrassing Thomas (which would have been more in character) he decided to once again press on. 

“His lordship and I have spoken on your present…misfortune.” Carson flustered for the appropriate word, his thin lips pursed, “We’ve both agreed you should be kept on, but the role of the under butler is a thing fragrant from the past and frankly we have no use for one in the abbey.” Mr. Carson raised his bushy eyebrows expectantly. 

Thomas blinked. 

“Mr. Moseley is taking on the role of teacher at the school, and will be leaving us quite soon. As such we will soon be short a first footman. If you would be so obliging to take on the role-?” Mr. Carson’s voice drifted on, his gaze turning just the slightest bit nervous as he waited for Thomas’ reaction. 

In the past, the idea of demoting himself to footman again had made him want to jump from the nearest bridge if only to escape the disgusting work of being everyone’s bitch-boy. But it seemed that life was determined to make Thomas the eternal bitch-boy, with his wrists taped and his valet box locked up in Mr. Carson’s desk. There was no work to be found outside the abbey. He highly doubted that the family would even want two footmen for long, but Andy would probably end up marrying Daisy and leaving to work on Mr. Mason’s new farm full time. If he stayed on as footman, he could at least have a few years more of relative safety. It would be toiling labor and degradation at the hands of the Bates, Mrs. Patmore, Carson, and of course the maids… but at least Thomas wouldn’t have to think about searching for a job anymore. At least he wouldn’t be counting each brass farthing that passed through his fingers and wondering how long it would last. At least he wouldn’t have to hear Carson remind him under every breath just how useless he was. How ornamental. How ridiculous. 

The marbles started to roll in his head. 

“Yes, Mr. Carson.” Thomas said to keep from listening to the marbles. 

“What’s this I hear?” 

Drawn to the sound of her husband’s voice, Mrs. Hughes poked her head in Mr. Carson’s door. She stepped inside, closing the door after her so that they were once again sequestered in the silence. Thomas did not even bother to turn around and look at her, instead glancing at Mr. Carson’s window. It was clean, he noted. He could even see outside to where a manicured tree sat at the edge of the side lawn. It was bare of leaves in the mid-winter cold, and Thomas could clearly see a robin’s nest that had been woven in the branches. When the leaves came back, one wouldn’t be able to see it at all. 

“Mr. Barrow- Thomas, that is-“ Carson had to change his terminology, “Has just agreed to take on the role of first footman again in Mr. Moseley’s absence. I will inform his lordship and have your livery changed out.” Carson said. Thomas did not reply, still looking at the robin’s nest. It was relatively small, but probably cozy. 

“It’ll be nice to have you as first footman again.” Mrs. Hughes tried for optimism despite the obvious step down from under butler, “You always carried yourself with such precision-“ Her voice drifted off. He still was entranced by the robin’s nest, and could not find it in him to make reply. She watched him, noting his profile and how the gray light of the overcast skies made him look as white as parchment. 

“Mr. Moseley will finish out the job tonight, you can start first thing in the morning.” Mr. Carson decided, “That’ll give him the time he needs to get his cottage set up in the village. Why not take the time to reacquaint yourself with the job. Mrs. Patmore could use some help in the kitchen, I’m sure.” 

As footman, there would be very few jobs for him in the kitchen besides fetching and carrying. He doubted there was anything for him to do there; it was clear Mr. Carson was trying to ferry him off to someone else. 

“Mr. Carson.” Thomas said, the simplest and shortest of acceptances. He turned and left Mr. Carson’s office with Mrs. Hughes still inside, and made his way around the corner into the kitchen corridor. Here the temperature picked up, slightly soothing on Thomas’ cold clammy skin; the smell of apples was thick upon the air. Inside, Thomas found Mrs. Patmore and Daisy hard at work, the only two occupants to the kitchen anymore. Long gone were the days of scullery maids though Gertie, the lowliest and youngest maid, often lit the fires in the morning and did most of Daisy’s old grunge work. Mrs. Patmore was tallying up a list, of what Thomas did not know. Daisy was at the stove, making apple scones (the source of the smell). Several pies were likewise going in the oven and on the kitchen island a large rack of lamb sat marinating with a dark brown sauce upon a heavy iron pan. Mrs. Patmore glanced up, eyes narrowing suspiciously at the site of Thomas in her doorway. Thin columns of steam drifted up all around her from the mouths half full kettles and bowls of hot beans. Thomas looked at them instead of her as he spoke, noting the way they drifted all the way to the ceiling so long as Mrs. Patmore did not move and create a wind. 

“Mrs. Patmore.” Thomas looked at the steam swirling upon the ceiling, “Mr. Carson said you could use some help.” 

“Help with what, I wonder.” She sneered, unimpressed, “I could hardly put an apron on you and have you scour the pots.” 

Thomas noted a stack of copper pots in the corner in need of scrubbing. They were tarnished, nearly brown with misuse. He walked over to them, pulling a hall boy’s apron off of a rack on the wall. He tied it around his waist, stooping down on bended knee to open up the bottom cupboard of Mrs. Patmore’s open supply cabinet where several boxes of soda crystals and cleaning pads sat. Fetching a few that seemed the most durable for intensive scrubbing, Thomas plucked up a misused bowl full of dirt and cobwebs to wipe at it with his fingers and fill it full of vinegar and salt. Mrs. Patmore watched, mouth agape as he’d proceeded to walk in wearing a corset and dance the black bottom. Even this, however, did not stop her from giving her two cents as she pulled forth a lemon juice and half a cut lemon that was drying upon the counter. She gave it a final squeeze with her meaty fist, gathering just enough juice out of its stale core to pour into Thomas’ bowl. As Thomas returned to the stack of pots in the corner, Mrs. Patmore noted, “Well that’s a sight to see.” in dry derision. 

Thomas sat down in the corner upon the hall boy’s stole, out of sight and out of mind as he began to polish the copper pots. 

It was mindless work, one that he could lose himself in. But as he did it he had to consider if this was all there was to his horrible half-life. Polishing pots and listening to the scathing reply of those around him. Overcome in a sudden rush of misery, Thomas paused mid-scrubbing of his fourth pot as he realized that he was bound for a disgusting life full of pain and isolation lest he find a way out again. 

He resumed scrubbing, his mind made up. 

There was no way to use a razor like before, not without stealing though he doubted he’d get very far. He needed to find a way to take his own life without others seeing or knowing. Without them being able to interject. As soon as he’d gotten resettled back into his own room he knew he’d be able to do it at night after everyone had gone to sleep. He could lay there till around midnight, perhaps a little bit after. He could put his desk chair underneath his door knob to create a poor man’s lock. The real question lay in how he was going to do it this time. 

It would have to be fast, something that would ensure despite someone breaking through his door and finding him there wouldn’t be enough time to pull him from Edward’s arms again. 

Thomas paused in his scrubbing of the seventh pot, watching as Daisy set her apple fritters upon a rack to cool only to turn and make to chop the marinated lamb right off its bone. She used a long meat cleaver; it glided through the cold flesh like butter. 

Yes, he thought, I’ll steal a knife and slit my throat. 

But which knife would he choose? There were plenty of knives to pick in the kitchen, but not one that he could feasibly steal. Mrs. Patmore watched every supply with a beaded eye, in particular her knives, and would know in a heartbeat if one of her special carvers was gone. The only knives Thomas stood a real chance at stealing were the cutlery knives given to the servants during mealtimes, and they weren’t exactly meat cleavers. He could, of course, take one and strop it to perfection in his room. 

Yes, he thought, That’s exactly what I’ll do. 

And so Thomas sat polishing his pots feeling much calmer. All would be over by midnight, he reasoned, and soon he’d be safe in Edward’s arms once again. He closed his eyes once or twice as he polished, imagining how pleased Edward would be to see him again. How loving and kind. How he would embrace Thomas and kiss his brow once more, even kiss his lips. So starved for genuine affection and love was he that the mere thought made him weepy even as he sat and polished pots in Mrs. Patmore’s hot kitchen. He kept quiet, refusing to allow a tear to fall in front of the two women, but emotionally overcome on the inside. 

Give me courage, Edward, Thomas prayed in that moment, Give me courage to last through this final day. 

The luncheon for the upstairs came and went, ferried out by Andy and Moseley who paid absolutely no mind to Thomas in the corner. It was as if he was invisible. As the last plate of lamb and vegetable went up, Mrs. Patmore turned to the many kettles and waved a hand for Daisy to begin filling them all. As if called by the sound of filling kettles, Mrs. Hughes entered the kitchen to observe them all at work. 

“Has they luncheon gone up?” Mrs. Hughes asked. 

“Just now.” Mrs. Patmore assured her with a small smile, “I’m going to make the servant’s tea.” 

“Very good.” Mrs. Hughes looked quite pleased at the prospect of a cup, “I could use a brew myself.” She paused, noting Thomas in the corner and the large collection of pots he’d polished in the few hours of his work, “My goodness!” She said with a smile, “You’ve been very busy.” 

Mrs. Patmore glared at Thomas dully from the sink, wary of his presence in her kitchen. 

“And just why exactly is he in my kitchen at all?” Mrs. Patmore demanded, “Scrubbing pots like a scullery maid?” 

“Thomas is taking over the role of first footman when Mr. Moseley leaves for the school house tomorrow.” Mrs. Hughes explained. Mrs. Patmore rolled her beady eyes, handing another full kettle for Daisy to shove onto a hot stove eye. 

“Oh I see.” She grumbled, “Getting back into the routine are we? Must be quite a step down from under butler.” 

Thomas made no reply to this, instead allowing his thoughts to drift to that icy cold bathtub and how Edward had held him so tenderly. 

My darling, he whispered, My darling, my darling, my darling. 

“Oh be kind.” Mrs. Hughes chided her gently, “Do you have another task for him to do?” 

“I didn’t even have the first one for him.” Mrs. Patmore snorted. 

“But it was nice of him to do it.” Mrs. Hughes added. 

My darling, The words rolled like marbles around his brain, My darling, my darling, my darling. 

“Why are you so somber?” 

It took Thomas a moment to pull back from the memory of Edward’s loving voice to realize that Daisy was speaking to him. So use to being ignored was he that when people did talk to him he genuinely did not know how to respond, and Thomas stared at her dumbly for a moment without reply. He noted the edge of flower upon her finger tips, how her eyes were incredibly round and wide upon her face. Like a child’s. 

“You look like you’ve still taken the flue.” Daisy sounded genuinely worried now, perhaps nervous about catching his supposed disease herself, “Should you really be up walking around?” 

Thomas needed to get his strop razor ready. He rose, sat down the final copper pot. finished, upon his stool. It gleamed in the hot kitchen lights, and upon its brilliant surface Thomas noted a black smudge directly behind his own smudge. He picked it up, irritable, and wiped the surface again in an attempt to remove the tarnish. The more he rubbed, however, the more the blackness persisted, till he stopped polishing and simply stared at the pot’s surface. 

It wasn’t a smudge at all. It was a shadow. 

Thomas regarded its shape, how tall and sharp it was like a human being. How it seemed to have angular shoulders and a narrow waist. 

“…My darling…” the words drifted upon the air. 

Thomas turned, looking right over his shoulder to the corner of the kitchen where (if it had been a true person) the shadow would have stood. Nothing was there, merely a broom and a stack of iron pots. He looked back around, but found the copper pot gleaming without a spot of darkness on it. 

The shadow was gone. 

Soon, Edward, Thomas thought, setting the pot down. Soon. 

He left the kitchen, mindless to the way the three women watched him go. Mrs. Patmore glared, Daisy just stared… Mrs. Hughes frowned, sighing as Thomas left the room. 

 

That night as the servant’s sat eating their dinner, Thomas kept absolutely silent and ate with slow calm. Determined not to draw attention to himself, he allowed the mull of conversation around him to reach a peak as he looked down at his plate and instead focused upon his left over lamb and Brussels sprouts. He’d eaten none of it, instead pushing it around his plate and drinking tea to keep others from mentioning the oddity… but he needn’t have bothered. No one was paying attention to him. Mrs. Hughes, to his left, was talking to Mr. Moseley who was the center of everyone’s attention what with his final night in the house. 

Thomas took up his knife and began to cut it his lamb with care. He sliced slowly, not saying a word, noting that the knife was actually quite sharp despite just being used for common cutlery. It would do quite well. 

Now comes the hard part, he thought, keep his face absolutely calm as he took his fork up in his other hand. Taking a bite of lamb with his fork, Thomas simultaneously drew the knife off the table to hold it in his lap. Careful not to be seen, he took another bite of lamb (dry and tasteless in his mouth) and began to push the knife, blade first, up inside his shirt sleeve. He continued to chew, eyes locked upon his plate- 

There was a hand in his lap. 

Thomas froze, unwilling to make eye contact as Mrs. Hughes’ hand drifted over his thigh and to the tips of his fingers which were still hiding the handle of his sequestered knife. He’d yet to stick it fully into his shirt sleeve, and grimaced with his mouth still fill of chewed lamb. He closed his eyes, swallowing painfully as Mrs. Hughes fingers gently pried at his own to find the cold knife handle beneath. 

She pulled, and took the knife away from him, putting it upon her own lap and never missing a beat with the conversation above as she once again congratulated Mr. Moseley. 

“It’s very kind of you to offer to help with large parties.” Mrs. Hughes said warmly, “I know Mr. Carson appreciates it and so will his Lordship.” 

Moseley just flustered and bumbled on, none of the others aware that Thomas’ plan had been utterly squashed. 

But he was not beat yet. 

Later on that night, as Thomas paced the floor of his own room and wondered what to do, he considered the growing hour and how, soon, everyone would no doubt be in bed. He could hear the sound of Andy washing up in the men’s lavatory along with the sounds of Moseley packing his finale valise. With Carson no longer on the hall it wasn’t too long before the final sounds of Andy closing his bedroom door and Moseley falling asleep drifted into absolute silence. 

And still Thomas sat, with the marbles rolling in his head. 

If he didn’t kill himself to night, he was certain that ‘life’ would only get worse. He’d now been demoted to footman again, and even that wasn’t going to last. He had to find a way to escape the purgatory he’d been enslaved into before it drug him under and destroyed him. The numbness which had acted as a protective cushion towards another suicidal urge was gone. On the verge of panicking again, Thomas tried to reason where he might find something sharp. Upstairs, in Andy and Moseley’s rooms, there would be shaving razors and scissors in sewing boxes. But if Thomas burst into their rooms, he would be stopped. They would rouse the others, call them from their sleep- Thomas needed to be far away from prying eyes or ears. 

But then again- 

Thomas seized, furious with himself. In a moment of blind rage he reached out and grabbed the bureau so that several personal items atop it rattled. Among them was a hand mirror, made for shaving, which was absolutely useless to Thomas now without his razor. Clutching at his hair, his heart pounding, he briefly considered swallowing some of the many hand and hair tonics he had in his bureau drawer until he glanced up at the mirror and saw Edward upon the bed behind him. He started, jumping a little with hands clapped over his mouth to keep from emitting a tiny shriek at the sight of Edward watching him from the bed. He lay in his bed clothes, just as he’d once down at Downton Hospital. His eyes were clear just like before in the hospital court yard, blue and shining as he watched Thomas shake by the bureau. 

“It’s in the kitchen.” Edward said, not even making to sit up in bed. “Go to the kitchens.” 

Thomas stared, wondering what on earth Edward was talking about until he reasoned that Edward must be referring to the meat clever Mrs. Patmore was using earlier. With Mrs. Patmore in bed, he would easily be able to steal the knife from the kitchens. 

“Yes, of course.” He blurted out, “Of course everyone is asleep now. Why didn’t I think of it before?” He wondered. 

“It’s difficult to think when you’re stressed.” Edward offered, ever the understanding one even in death. His kindness melted Thomas’ heart, already so skittish with anxiety, and gave him pause. His fingers relaxed upon the bureau edge, clammy tips slipping so that his hands fell back to his sides where they hung heavy and loose. 

“Thank you, my darling.” Thomas whispered. Edward smiled, pleased, “Thank you.” 

When he turned around to praise Edward some more, he found the bed empty. Unnerved, he moved to its side to touch the mattress but found it without flaw or dampness. His heart began to pick up pace again as he realized that the only way he would ever be able to truly be with Edward was if he was dead, and that wasn’t going to happen unless he made his way down to the kitchens pronto. 

He poked his head out into the hallway to find it quiet and dark. In only his trousers and an undershirt, suspenders swinging at his sides, Thomas slowly stepped out into the dark and closed his door after him. The last thing he wanted was to cause Andy or Moseley to wake. He trod to the stairs, footsteps light, but as he began to descend he found himself picking up speed. With each step he took, he drew closer to seeing Edward again. By the time that he was at the bottom, in near gloom, he was flat out running. He spun on the landing, completely deaf to the world around him as he bolted for the kitchen and burst over its threshold. 

There, sitting at her side table, was Mrs. Patmore and Mrs. Hughes. Both were shocked to see him, sharing a cup of cooling tea and a plate of biscuits. Mrs. Hughes had her coat and hat with her, as if on the verge of leaving for the night. There on the kitchen island was an enormous array of pots, pans, knives, and racks, each drying after being washed by Gertie the lowliest maid. On the edge, laid out with precision upon a dampened tea towel, were the knives including the meat clever. 

Thomas’ heart pounded in his breast, his pulse jumping in his throat as he stared at that knife. 

“Thomas?” Mrs. Hughes set down her tea cup, rising half way out of her chair in alarm, “Are you alright?” 

My darling, the marbles rolled in his head, My darling, my darling, my darling.   
The numbness was gone. 

Thomas leapt for the meat cleaver, grabbing it from the kitchen island and sprinting from the room with the sounds of Mrs. Hughes shrieking “NO!” in his ears. He ran for the far hallway, knowing for a fact that the pantry would be unlocked at this time of night with Mrs. Hughes’ keys still in the door. He made a beeline for it, knowing full well he could lock himself in with the only set of keys to guard the way. There, in the pantry, he could cut his throat and be safe in Edward’s arms once more. 

He reached the end of the hallway, where the pantry and the boiler room sat across from one another at a dead end. But as he came to the pantry door, he found it closed without its keys. He grabbed at it desperately, hands slick with sweat as he jiggled the handle. It was locked. 

Mrs. Patmore had already gotten her supplies for the next day. Mrs. Hughes had taken back the keys. 

Mrs. Hughes and Mrs. Patmore both were running up the hall as fast as they could, flush faced and hair flopping in its usually tight hold. Knowing he had absolutely no where left to run, numbness gone and marbles scattering wildly in his head, Thomas brought the meat cleaver to his throat and held it there till the steel began to sting. He made to pull-!

“Wait, STOP!” Mrs. Hughes shrieked, her voice louder than Thomas had ever known it to be before. The noise jarred him, making him jump as he flattened himself against the dead end. “Stop, stop-!” She pleaded, her ancient face drained of blood and twisted sickly in terror. Next to her, Mrs. Patmore clutched at her heart, absolutely stunned. “Just listen to what I’m saying-“ 

Thomas shook his head, the drag with the blade causing a thin trickle of blood to begin to seep down his throat. Mrs. Patmore just kept clutching at her heart. 

“God in heaven-“ She panted, her words almost toneless with fear. 

“Mrs. Patmore-“ Mrs. Hughes reached blindly for her, grabbing her at the arm and clutching to her tight. “Hurry, go get Ms. Baxter. She’s in the boot room. Hurry!” She begged, pushing off. Mrs. Patmore turned and ran, jogging up the hall as fast as she could under her enormous girth. More frightened than ever, images of padded cells and asylums dancing through his feverish brain, Thomas pressed the knife again and closed his eyes to make for the final pull. 

“NO!” Mrs. Hughes cried out again. He jerked, frightened, unable to kill himself when she was staring straight at him. After her supposed kindness (even if it was only pity in disguise). 

“Just… Just one moment more, I beg of you.” She protested. Far off Thomas could hear shouting, the sounds dulled in his ears amid the marbles rolling in his brain. “Did something happen today? When did you begin feeling like this?” 

But Thomas couldn’t answer. He felt as if his tongue had been ripped out of his mouth, and he gagged, instead pressing the meat cleaver tight to his throat. Now that he was right on the brink of the moment he couldn’t figure out how to draw the knife across. Should he try and divert their attention and then do it? Should he just give it up for lost and do it flat out? 

The sounds of shoes upon stone came tearing up the hall, and Baxter whipped around the corner with Mrs. Patmore panting haggardly behind her. She looked fit to have a second heart attack, staggering to a halt as she clutched at a stitch in her massive side. Baxter skittered to a halt at Mrs. Hughes side, looking from Thomas’ pilfered meat cleaver to the way that he clutched at his head with his free hand. He almost wanted to weep with fear, pressed flat against the wall. His breathes were hitching in his throat, making it impossible to take deep, solid pulls. He felt he might have a panic attack at any moment, and briefly wondered if he was already in the throws of one. 

Baxter made to take a step forward, hand up. Thomas jumped. 

“Don’t!” He shouted, more terrified of her approaching than any other thing. 

“I won’t!” Baxter assured him at once, stepping back with her hands up above her head so that Thomas could see she wasn’t planning anything. He suddenly felt incredible cold and shivered. The meat cleaver trembled at his neck. 

My darling, the marbles whispered, My darling, my darling, my darling. 

“I won’t do anything,” Baxter murmured, her soothing voice cutting off the sound of the marbles in his mind. “And neither will they.” Baxter nodded to Mrs. Hughes and Mrs. Patmore, both of whom were ashen faced in their terror. For a moment Baxter just breathed, making Thomas feel more and more awkward and foolish with the knife to his neck. 

Like his pain meant nothing. 

His face began to screw up. He shook his head slowly, hating them all. Hating the house that encaged him and the weak hand that wouldn’t draw the knife across his neck. 

“You are not alone in this.” Baxter murmured, her voice as soothing as ever. How he loathed it, “I’m here, right now.” 

“I’m always alone.” Thomas ground out, teeth clenched and voice quavering. He kept his eyes pinched tight. “I’ve been alone all my life.” 

In an attempt to sooth himself, to steady himself in his panic, he whispered, “You’re not real. None of this is real. None of this is real.” 

It was all a dream, all a facade. All he had to do was draw his knife and it would end. He still had the control. 

“It is real.” Baxter cut across him, and Thomas grimaced, clutching wildly at his hair with his free hand. “But it will change.” 

He shook his head, unwilling to listen. Still she pressed on. 

“You may not believe it at this very moment, but the way you are feeling, the way you are living will change.” 

But this was folly, and Thomas could not believe it. How could his situation, so marred and disgusting, ever change? He couldn’t be normal, he couldn’t live normally- he would never know the comfort and quiet of Downton that the Bates frolicked in… that Carson lorded over like a king. Downton was a prison. 

“How?” He choked out, eyes pinched shut. He refused to open them, couldn’t bear to see the three women blocking the hallway before him. He wanted to crouch into the corner, to sink down till he was as small and unseen as the dirt. He wanted to hide within the very floor and never be found again. Suddenly the urge to die was overwhelming, but the energy of the act fled from Thomas so that he was left gaping like a fish, face wet and fingers numb. “How when- when every- how?” He couldn’t even finish a sentence he was so bone tired. 

He sagged against the wall and slid down, crouching against the ground with his knife still to his neck. He palmed it, letting it slip into his lap, and sniveled as he observed the meat cleaver in his hands. How large and cold it was, rimmed with blood. The neck of his undershirt was stained crimson from the thin cut he’d made in his neck. It stung in the cool night air. 

“…What can you manage?” Baxter asked, and at first Thomas didn’t understand what she meant. He looked up, his gaze bleary. He almost couldn’t discern facial features, and he had to rub at his eyes with his free hand to see that it was unshed tears. Bitterly ashamed of how low he’d sunk, he stared at the moisture upon the back of his hand instead of Baxter’s face. In the low brass light of the far off kitchen, it glistened like gold. “One more minute? Maybe ten more? How much longer can you hold off?” 

Now that was a fair question and one that he ought to be able to answer. Thomas thought about it, considering the wild emotions warring inside of him. Exhaustion fought with rage, each tinged at the edge by an onset of numbness that continued to try and grow back. He supposed…? 

“I…” Thomas fumbled for the appropriate words, “I don’t know… maybe… maybe five? Five… minutes.” He managed to get out last, feeling oddly concrete in his words.

All he had to do was live five more minutes. That seemed feasible. 

“He tried to take a knife at dinner.” Mrs. Hughes said, to Mrs. Patmore or Ms. Baxter Thomas could not tell, “I managed to take it away from him.” 

“Did you have a plan?” Baxter asked. Once again, this seemed feasible to answer, because he already knew the answer and did not have to think. 

“…I was…” Thomas fumbled once more for words, speech oddly sluggish in his mouth, “I was going to slit my throat.” 

“And when she took the knife that botched the plan.” Baxter mused; she crossed her arms over her chest, deep in thought. 

“Yes.” 

Thomas blinked up at her from the floor, the knife still firm in his hand.   
Five minutes. All he had to endure was five more minutes. He could do that. 

Baxter looked down at her wristwatch, glancing back up at Thomas. Her lips were set into a firm white line. 

“Five minutes have passed.” Baxter told him. Thomas’ heart jumped a little in his chest, “Do you think you can hold off five more?” 

“…M…Maybe?” now they were heading into unsafe territory. If he kept agreeing, he’d end up living fifteen minutes or god forbid half an hour. He couldn’t possibly manage that. 

“Ok.” Baxter did not seem at all fazed, unlike Mrs. Hughes and Mrs. Patmore, both of whom looked ready to faint, “Let’s just stand and wait.” 

“What?!” Mrs. Patmore whispered, her tone hot and angry. She glanced from Thomas holding her pilfered meat cleaver to Baxter who kept her respective distance. 

“Shh.” Baxter never took her eyes off of Thomas. He suddenly became lost in their calm brown hold, “Let’s just wait however long it takes.” 

Thomas almost wanted to lay down and go to sleep on the floor. He looked down at the meat cleaver in his lap, at the drying brown edge of its line. 

He raised it up again, knife hanging like a thread in the air. He stared at the blade as if he were looking into the eyes of a porcelain doll. 

“I’m right here.” Baxter spoke up, her voice an unfortunate reminder that Thomas was not alone with his marbles and whispers, “I’m not leaving. None of us are leaving. We’re going to get through this. Together.” 

Thomas shook his head again, holding the meat cleaver to his chest. He found himself wishing that they all would leave. If only they’d abandon this cause, he’d be able to complete his own. As much as he wanted to die, he couldn’t do it in front of them. 

Coward, the marbles whispered. You’re undeserving of Edward. 

It made him want to weep. 

“We may not be able to understand how you’re feeling, but we do care about you and we do want to help. More than you know.” Mrs. Hughes kept that weird angelic stance, the same one she’d taken the night of Sybil Crawley’s death as she’d comforted Daisy and Mr. Carson in turn. She’d been so saintly then, it had made Thomas want to puke. The problem with Mrs. Hughes was that he couldn’t figure out whether she was being sincere or not. Whether she was actually kind or merely playing him for her own advantage. But what advantage could that possibly be? 

The marbles were making it hard to think. 

“Are you ready to go, Elsie?” 

The sound of Charles Carson’s voice descending the stairs sent absolute panic into Thomas’ already jittery psyche. Frightened, he jerked off the ground with the knife back in hand. He pressed it to his neck, ready to pull- Mrs. Hughes panicked her voice rising up as high as her hand with her eyes wide like saucers. Baxter was ready to jump, her hands outstretched and clawed. Mrs. Patmore would faint in the next minute or so, Thomas was sure. 

“Charles!” Mrs. Hughes cried out. Thomas’ hand twitched upon the meat cleaver, “Whatever you do, do not panic when you come around the corner!” 

Why say that of all things? Thomas couldn’t understand. Should he slit his throat now, in front of Mr. Carson whose shadow was already coming around the corner? Should he wait? The marbles were pounding in his brain, giving him a migraine and making him want to scream as he clutched at his hair again. 

“What on earth around you talking ab-“ Mr. Carson came around the corner, coat on and bowler hat in hand. 

He saw Thomas at the end of the hallway, framed by the three women who barred the way. At the sight of his bagged eyes widening, shame overtook Thomas. He seized the knife tighter to his neck, ready to pull-! 

“No!” Baxter begged, her voice far from loud but incredibly intense. Thomas stopped, another thin trill of blood beginning to pour from his neck in a second cut. He grimaced, cursing himself for his inability to commit suicide in front of Baxter of all people. Now Carson was watching, eyes wide and intense as Baxter tried to reach out for Thomas with her hands. He pressed himself even further against the wall, heart pounding. He was suddenly overtaken by an intense desire to run, but couldn’t with Baxter, Mrs. Hughes and Mrs. Patmore blocking the way. 

“Just one more minute.” Baxter protested, “Just hold off for one more minute. Sixty seconds, that’s all you need-“ 

“I don’t think I can-“ Thomas blurted out, shaking his head rapidly. Sixty seconds seemed like an eternity with Carson breathing down his neck. Any second now he predicted someone else would walk around the corner. Bates? Moseley? Lord Grantham? Who else would be witness to his suicide? 

“You can.” Baxter praised, “You’re doing it right now.” 

“And you’re doing wonderfully.” Mrs. Patmore spoke up. Her voice quavered thick and hesitant, reminding Thomas of the time when she’d be told her nephew had been shot for cowardice. 

He wished someone would shoot him now. 

Mr. Carson came up the hall, his steps heavy but slow as he drug one foot in front of the other. Coming around Mrs. Patmore’s side, he watched Thomas’ expressions as carefully as a man observing a ticking pipe bomb. 

“What is occurring here?” He asked, as if they were observing a polo match mid- throw instead of a man about to take his life for the second time in a week. 

This was what Thomas couldn’t stand, the constant ignorance and apathy that followed him around like a dark cloud. The fact that he was standing at the brink of a cliff with a meat cleaver to his neck and Carson couldn’t so much as bother to raise a bushy eyebrow. Wouldn’t even spend the energy to ask Thomas himself what was going on, or how he might be able to help. 

My darling, Edward called, luring him into the deepest sleep, My darling, my darling, my darling. 

“God-“ Thomas spluttered eyes, pinching his eyes shut tight so as not to see Carson anymore. He could feel his face growing wet again, “My head hurts so bad.” He said, as the marbles bounced around inside his skull, “I can- hear it rolling-“ he admitted, “In my head-“ 

“What’s rolling?” Baxter asked. “Tell me?” she added when Thomas did not speak for a moment. 

“My-“ Thomas whimpered, clutching his hair tighter. How could he feasibly explain the marbles, “My thoughts- all the bad things people say-“ 

“Can good things roll around there too?” Baxter asked. What an odd question, but Thomas supposed it had merit. Marbles came in all sizes and shapes. Why not good ones? 

“Yes.” He stuttered, knife still tight to his neck. 

“Can I put some good marbles in there?” Baxter asked. “In your head.” 

She couldn’t have given him a more beautiful gift if she tried, and Thomas opened his eyes amazed to see her gazing upon him with such undeserved adoration that he was momentarily stuck between the idea of dropping the knife and the idea of begging her for more. Good marbles? She could offer him these? Would he even be able to accept them? Would he not just… combust if he heard good things? 

“Do you remember when you were…” Baxter scrunched up her brow, deep in thought. “Five, I reckon.” She carried on. Thomas shook his head but she continued on anyways, “And it was autumn, and all the trees in Stockport had shed their leaves and there were huge piles in our backyards.” 

Her words painted a picture in Thomas’ mind, of a city he’d not seen in nearly twenty years. Of a house he’d forgotten about and the people within it. Several siblings, all younger and clamoring for attention. A pair of parents, reckless and exhausted from overwork and underpay. But the leaves- oh the leaves! How beautiful they’d been, changing colors and swirling about.It had been years, decades since Thomas had thought about those beautiful leaves. In truth he’d missed them. 

“Do you remember how your father and mine set a large one on fire to clear up the space and… and we found out a massive group of rabbits had nested in there?” Baxter asked. Thomas nodded, for indeed he could remember this! Little brown blobs flying in terror from a smoking leaf pile only to be scooped up by- “And remember they all ran out, and our mothers panicked and grabbed the babies, and we had a box of baby rabbits to play with? Do you remember?” 

But of course Thomas remembered. How could he forget such an endearing sight? That milk crate turned cradle had been Thomas’ center as soon as he’d realized he could pick up a baby bunny and hold it to his chest. He could kiss it, pet it, listen to it make noises as it chuffed and slept- such adventures had never been topped by a four year old. 

“We nursed them, and wrapped them in little towels, they weren’t any bigger than lemons. Do you remember that?” Baxter asked again. Thomas nodded dumbly, eyes slowly relaxing closed as the memory of a small rabbit between his chubby fingers swam to the surface. The way its nose had wiggled, testing the air between them for friendship. 

“Do you remember how you took them all out of the box, and put them in your lap?” Baxter asked. Thomas shook his head, unable to recall it. “You had about twenty baby rabbits piled atop you, and you didn’t want to move.” Baxter paused, coughing as if to hold back in a chuckle. Thomas blearily opened his eyes again to see that she was, indeed, smiling. She kept biting at her lips, trying to control her expression. 

“Your mother kept telling you to leave it alone.” Baxter said, “To sit at the table, and eat dinner… but you wouldn’t do it. You were too captivated by the rabbits.” 

Thomas swallowed at the mention of his mother. It brought to mind too many images of a severe woman with a hooked nose and hair as black as coal dust- the way she’d wrung her hands and paced the floor in fear every time fever was mentioned in the village square. She’d count her children, all seven of them, whispering their names in the dark during her prayers. 

“Margret, Thomas, Daniel, Ruth, Mildred, Florence, Alice.” 

But then, as he’d grown older and become the family scapegoat, her prayers would change. 

“God protect my girls and keep Danny strong.” 

And so Thomas had been forgotten by his own mother… till another fever had rolled around. 

“I can give you more marbles.” Baxter offered gently, “But first I need you to give me that knife.” and as she said it she extended her hand. 

Thomas shook his head, keeping the meat cleaver to his neck. He wasn’t stupid, he knew what was coming. The minute he dropped the knife all four of them would pounce and cart him off to an asylum. He’d never see the sun again. 

Baxter paused, seeming to sense she was asking too much too fast. She dropped her hand, rethinking her position with pursed lips. 

“Do you remember once there was a massive lightning storm, but it hadn’t reached us yet?” Baxter asked. Once again, Thomas had to shake his head, “They’d even warned for twisters… and our parents were at a community meeting. We had all climbed up onto the roof of your parents shop and watched the storm approach. We watched the lightening go up into the clouds, until it illuminated the entire thing like a lamp- and it turned the clouds a soft lilac. Remember how beautiful that color was?” 

At first he couldn’t and such despair filled him up that Thomas could not bear to look at Baxter anymore. He closed his eyes, head bowed again with knife still pressed to his neck. But as she carried on, Thomas was bitterly captivated by his words and allowed himself to picture the scene despite not being able to remember it. Was it his imagination or did he hear the far off rumble of thunder? 

“You told me it was the prettiest color in the world. We got to watch the rain roll across the land from afar. The smell… it was such a sweet smell. Soft grass, wet like that. And the wind was blowing wildly, so all our skirts were up in the air and we had to sit with them beneath our legs or we’d be indecent. Do you remember that?” Baxter asked gently. 

Thomas shook his head. 

Baxter seemed disappointed, her smile dropping as she pursed her lips again deep in thought. For a moment silence took over the hall as Baxter tried for another story and Mr. Carson for a reason as to why Thomas had the indecency to put a pilfered meat cleaver to his neck.

“You won’t remember this, but I do.” Baxter continued on, “It was the very first time we met.” 

Though Thomas had yet to realize it, Mrs. Hughes and Mrs. Patmore were both watching Ms. Baxter captivated by their stories. No doubt this image of a cherub little Thomas so full of youth was a shocking revelation in comparison to the disturbed man before them. Baxter did not seem to realize she had a captivated audience. Instead she pressed on with her story, eyes locked to Thomas’ knife. 

“You were about a year old, maybe a little less… I was helping my mother set up the family shop. We’d just moved into the area. Your father and mine were arguing and your mother went to stop them. This was before they became such good friends… and she said ‘Here take him, I need both hands’, and she handed you to me. And- “ Baxter broke of with a snort. Mrs. Patmore gave her an affronted look, no doubt under the impression this wasn’t the time to laugh, but Baxter couldn’t stop. Her tone turned gay, “I remember you were so disgruntled at being handled by a stranger. You stared at me like I was a lunatic and only relaxed when I bounced you around a bit. But then you didn’t want me to stop, so I had to dance around singing to you. And by the end of it you didn’t want to go back to your mother because I was apparently more fun.” 

Mrs. Hughes was beginning to smile in spite of herself though Mrs. Patmore still looked heavily displeased. 

Baxter shrugged, dropping her hands in a frank pleading gesture, “After then, every time you saw me you always stuck your hands out and wanted me to hold you… so your mother paid me a brass to babysit.” Baxter shook her head with a calm smile, her laughs finally worn off, “I’d never head a baby before that, I was so nervous. I thought I’d hurt you or something catastrophic would happen. But every time we’d just end up dancing and laughing. Do you remember that or… were you too little?” 

But oddly enough Thomas could remember it, though the image was foggy and as distant as a summer rain. He could manage to conjure up the image of a young Baxter stooping down to grab him from the floor, making some obscenely happy face and toying with him as she blathered nonsense words. 

“Look whose here!” she’d cry out in delight every time she’d seen Thomas. 

“Me!” He’d wanted to say in his infancy. “Me! I’m here!” 

“I… think.” Thomas whispered, “I do. A bit.” 

“I’m glad.” Baxter said, and the sincerity in her voice made Thomas’ bruised heart bleat in pain, “You were such a happy baby. You were the only one I wanted to babysit.” 

“Really?” Mrs. Patmore broke across, sounding rather shocked. Baxter didn’t mind though, merely shaking her head with that same calm smile upon her face as if Thomas wasn’t before her with a knife to his neck. 

“Really.” Baxter replied softly, her voice almost a whisper, “I only ever babysat you. When you were old enough you babysat your younger siblings of course… but when it was just you and Margret, I’d babysit you. Margret and I would pretend to play house, like you were our baby instead. We were just teenagers. It was great fun. You were always laughing or making a mess. Actually one time you caused quite a bit of trouble. You-“ But Baxter had to stop again, pressing a hand to her mouth as she pinched her eyes closed and tried to keep her laughter in. 

Are you laughing at my suicide? Thomas wanted to demand, almost affronted. Do you think I’m funny in my despair? 

“You were still only about one,” Baxter began, eyes watering with mirth as she forced herself not to laugh, “I’d just really started getting into the habit of babysitting you, and Margret and I were giving you a bath, and it started raining. And we had you wrapped up in a linen and you were sitting still while we poured the bath water outside… but then you just… took off!” 

She tittered softly, almost about to wheeze for how desperately she was holding her laughter on. Thomas stared, disgruntled. 

“You took right off and ran into the back yard and got absolutely filthy!” Baxter used her hand, thrusting it out as if to display a little naked Thomas running away into the mud. “And Margret and I got soaked chasing you, because you wouldn’t hold still, and you nearly ran into the street, until -thank god, your father came home early and grabbed you. I remember- oh-!” She sighed, her laughter fading as her smile returned, “I thought he was going to yell at us but instead he just let you play outside in the mud and get as filthy as you pleased- because we had to fill up the bath tub again to get you clean. Your father stood with you in the rain and let you play- he got soaked to the skin.” Baxter sighed again, putting a hand to her temple as if to quell a headache, “It was a miracle none of us got the cold. I think I ruined my frock… I know your sister ruined hers. And you were just as happy as a jay bird, frolicking naked in the mud… hardly a year old.” 

Mrs. Patmore made an odd shuffling noise that could have been the tiniest suppressed laugh. Mr. Carson shot her a filthy look, forcing her to regain her stoic composure lest he chastise her before the others. 

“You were a handful.” Mrs. Patmore said with slightest praise. 

“But we loved it.” Baxter said gently. “He wasn’t any trouble, really-“ 

“Except for that one time.” Mrs. Patmore added softly. 

These people weren’t taking him seriously. Here they were joking and frolicking, talking about him in his infancy and having the audacity to laugh. With a meat cleaver to his neck and blood trailing down to his shirt, Thomas was still nothing more than a puppet on stage for them- not a person capable of pain. 

Dismayed, despairing, Thomas slid down the wall again and let the knife drop into his lap. Though he still held it he did not put it to his neck, and this seemed to relieve the others. There was an odd slip in the tension, as if (even while laughing) they’d still been afraid. As if they thought they were making progress. 

“If you give me the knife I’ll tell you another-“ Baxter offered but Thomas cut her out. 

“I don’t want to hear another.” Thomas muttered softly, “I didn’t want to hear the first three.” 

Baxter paused, smile slipping. 

“Even when I’m right here. Even when I’m dying before your very eyes.” Thomas whispered, “You still think I’m just a joke.” He looked up at her, eyes no doubt haunted, “Silly me, right? Don’t be silly, isn’t that what you said?” 

The quiet in the hallway was haunting. Mrs. Patmore looked oddly ashamed though Thomas could not say why. Mrs. Hughes had bowed her head, lips pursed. Baxter, on the other hand just looked disappointed… as if Thomas had missed some great message she was trying to relay. 

Fuck you, he wanted to say. I’m not your telegram machine. 

“I’m dying.” He whispered again, “I’m dying.” He looked down at the floor for a moment, ashamed to feel his eyes well up with tears. 

He looked back up at Baxter, and though tears spilled down his gaunt cheeks he still did not blink. “I’m dying and I never even lived.” He said, afraid. 

The numbness had returned, and as Thomas looked down at the knife in his lap he realized how silly he was. He steal a meat cleaver and hold himself hostage at the end of this hallway. It was late. These people wanted to get to bed. None of them cared about him. He would have to commit suicide some other time when they were all asleep. 

“I’m a ghost in this house.” Thomas whispered to his lap. “I’m… I’m already dead.” 

“That’s not true-“ Mrs. Hughes tried to protest, her voice breaking in the fragile silence. Thomas shook his head, cutting her off. 

“Do the marbles tell you that you’re dead?” Baxter asked softly. “Or do you just think that because you don’t feel anything?” 

But Thomas couldn’t talk anymore. He rose, weary, and leaned against the wall with the knife dangling from his fingertips. It felt horribly heavy, like it was made of cement. He shook his head, exhausted, and in his timid fall from grace the knife finally slipped from his fingers. 

It dropped to the ground, and in an unnerving show of what it was capable of it stuck straight up in the wood… the tip sinking straight down. 

Baxter stepped forward, and before he could tell her to stop she put her hands on his face- 

“No!” He cried out, thrashing backward to pin himself in the corner. Terrified, he threw his hands up in front of his face to block himself from Baxter’s attacks. 

“Shh-“ She kept her hands on his cheeks, rubbing at the clammy skin with her thumbs, “Shh- don’t fret-“ 

“You’re going to kill me-“ Thomas blurted out, “You’re going to- to lock me up-“ 

“Hush now-“ Baxter protested, taking up his entire vision as she pressed their foreheads together. He could feel her breath upon his face, sweetened by tea laced with sugar, “Hush now I’d never do such a thing.” 

Trembling, he quivered beneath her hands, frightened of every second that was surely to come. 

“I’m so proud of you.” Baxter whispered. “For dropping that knife.” 

“It was heavy.” Thomas whimpered. 

“Yes. It was.” Baxter agreed, and without warning she took him into her arms fully to hug him.

Why now did he want to weep? 

Bitter, exhausted, and afraid, Thomas clung onto her as tightly as he could, wrists weakened and bandaged, head buried in her shoulder. He sobbed, a broken man, and allowed her to hold him up in that corner as she rubbed his back. He could not remember a storm with lilac colored clouds, nor his infancy when his parents had still loved him and he’d not been the family scapegoat. He could not recall why it was that he was alive, nor how he’d fully- 

How he’d- 

Thomas couldn’t think anymore. He was too fucking tired. 

As if spurned on by his exhaustion, his tears flowed with renewed force. He almost collapsed onto poor Baxter would could barely hold him up. Despite his overwhelming size and weight, she didn’t let it show. Instead she held him tighter, gripping onto his hair and back with intense fingers that seemed to sink him back to the earth. 

“Cry.” She ordered, “If that’s what you need to do.” 

And it was. 

It was difficult to say what happened next. Thomas was so exhausted and disorientated that he could not fully grasp the conversation occurring around him. He knew a few things for certain- Mrs. Patmore took the knife from the floor, both Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes wanted to look at Thomas’ neck but Thomas kept shrugging them off till Baxter made them let him be. Despite having hated her only moments before, having abhorred her stories, Thomas clung to her desperately. To her credit she protected him, and though there was some argument about what to do she seemed to find it best that they simply all go to bed. That no harm had come of the attempt and Thomas was too tired to have a conversation. 

“Let it be till tomorrow.” he heard Baxter saying. “We’ll talk about it tomorrow when he’s more aware of himself. I’ll stay with him tonight.” 

And so they went upstairs together, accompanied by Mrs. Patmore as Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes went home with tentative expressions. The whole walk up the stairs, Mrs. Patmore kept absolutely silent. She seemed shaken, frightened even, but Thomas could spare no pity for her in that moment. He had energy only for himself and even that was not enough. 

They went to the women’s side, an area foreign to Thomas though it was identical to the men’s. Ms. Baxter’s room was close to the glass door; it seemed she’d taken over O’Brien’s old room. 

She allowed him to collapse onto her bed, and he lay there weeping into her duvet as she changed for bed. 

Maybe she knew in his exhausted state, delirious and deprived, he was no threat to her modesty. He lay there with eyes closed, unaware of anything save for that he was on the verge of insanity. Rational thought eluded him. The desperate need for comfort finally won out over the horror of being comforted. 

The lights turned off, plunging Thomas into gloom. A dip in the mattress alerted him to the presence of Baxter, and when she scooted up next to him she was still wearing her housecoat. Her hair, unbound, hung nearly down to the middle of her back in curly brown rivulets. 

She held him about the waist, pulling him tight to her body till they were one conformed shape on her two meagre pillows. 

She whispered things into his ear, things he couldn’t fully process or understand. Such concepts as ‘You are brave and loved’, and ‘I’ll never let you go’. 

“You are alive.” she whispered in his ear right before he passed out, “And every time you forget I’ll remind you.” 

When Thomas slipped into sleep, it was dreamless and dark. 

When he woke the next morning it was much the same. 

Mrs. Patmore was their personal alarm clock, rousing Baxter half an hour early before Gertie in order to get Thomas out of the woman’s side without being seen by Daisy or Gertie herself. The cuts on Thomas’ neck were inflamed and dark red, probably infected from not being applied with antiseptic. Numb and half-wake, Thomas allowed Baxter to put an ointment on his neck as he sat at the edge of her bed. She dressed for the day while keeping a constant eye on him, brushing and braiding her hair with nimble fingers as she wrapped her braid back into a bun and pinned it expertly. When she took him by the elbow and lifted him from her bed, Thomas went willingly. She might be leading him to his doom but he could not find it within him to care. Mrs. Patmore let them out of the women’s side, going against Mrs. Hughes’ number one rule of no one turning the lock… it seemed they were past the point of upholding propriety. 

In his own room, Baxter sat him down at his desk and fussed through his wardrobe, finding his livery swapped out for a first footman’s striped vest and white gloves. He let her lay out his clothes, let him comb his hair, and when the time came to shave it was her hand that held the razor not his own. 

He did not look her in the eye as she spread soap upon his scratchy skin. Did not look at all as she shaved him. With each drag of the razor he wondered if she would take mercy on him and cut his throat. But by the end of it he was clean shaven and still alive… damn her for it. 

She watched him as he brushed teeth, kept a close eye on him as he tied his shoelaces, and when he finally was ready to go downstairs Gertie was beginning to knock on the women’s side doors. 

They went downstairs together while the rest of the house woke up around them. Mrs. Patmore was already in the kitchen, and made them both a cup of tea as they sat together in the servant’s hall. 

But even then, Baxter was not done with him, and as the house stirred about them she whispered in his ear. 

“We’re going to make a plan, you and I.” She murmured softly so that no one else could hear. “A plan for next time if you want to kill yourself again.” 

I already want to, Thomas wanted to say. Instead he stared at his cooling cup of tea and wondered when he’d be able to slip away. Perhaps tonight when they were all asleep- 

“The next time you want to kill yourself, let’s have a list of people for you to go to.” Baxter murmured. “I’ll be you’re first choice.” She held up her thumb on her left hand. “Now let’s think of four more people.” 

Thomas shook his head, willing to give it up for lost until she nudged him in the side.

“We need a plan.” She urged, impatient. “Give me four more people. If I wasn’t here, who would you talk to?” 

“No one.” Thomas admitted, because it was the damn truth. But this did not sit right by Baxter, and she kept wiggling her free four fingers. 

For a solid minute neither of them spoke. Outside of the servant’s hall Thomas heard the sound of Daisy call out to Mrs. Patmore. “Beans are done!” 

“…Mrs. Hughes.” Thomas finally said. Baxter nodded, satisfied and put down her pointer finger. Now three were wiggling. 

“A good choice.” Baxter praised him. “Who will be your third.” 

Can I feasibly smash this teacup and slit my throat with the shards? Thomas wondered looking down at the teacup in his hands. Baxter nudged him again. 

“Mrs. Patmore.” He grumbled. After last night what harm could it do. Now only two fingers were wiggling. 

“Anna.” One finger. 

“Daisy.” She brought her hand to his own, and squeezed it endearingly. 

“Good,” She agreed, “Now we have five people to go to in the event of another moment. If you can’t find me, you’ll go to Mrs. Hughes. If she’s gone, go to Mrs. Patmore. If you can’t find her, you’ll go to Anna. If Anna is likewise gone you’ll go to Daisy.” 

“And if everyone’s gone I have your permission to die?” Thomas grumbled under his breath. She merely squeezed his hand again. 

“I have terrible news for you, Thomas Barrow.” She murmured softly. Out of the corner of his eye, Thomas saw the Bates walk into the servant’s hall, smiling and speaking softly of baby names as they took their usual seats. “I’m terribly fond of you, and you will therefor never have my permission to die.” 

She tried to catch his eye, smiling tenderly. He refused to meet her gaze. 

“… Are you having a thought?” Baxter asked softly. 

“Yes.” There was no point in hiding it anymore. 

“Do you have a plan?” 

“Yes.” 

“What’s your plan?” Baxter asked, not nervous or angry- merely curious. She took a small sip of tea as she waited for Thomas to speak. 

“I’m going to wait till I’m alone and slit my throat.” Thomas said. It sounded like a feasible enough plan. 

“Well then.” Baxter set down her tea cup with a soft clink. “I’ll just make sure you’re never left alone. Thank you for telling me your plan.” 

Bitch, Thomas thought bitterly. His tea remained untouched. 

The change up in Thomas’ attire also brought a change up in seating at the table. Where before Thomas had sat to Mrs. Hughes’ right, he now sat across from her on Baxter’s right. Now Anna sat to Mrs. Hughes right, with everyone else moving up a seat on his old side forcing poor Gertie to switch tables from left to right in order to to keep the seats open for the original occupants. As the table filled up for the morning, the Carson's entered and everyone had to rise to their feet lest they be insubordinate. As Thomas sank back down in his new chair, Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes took their seats; Mrs. Hughes gave him a kind smile which Thomas did not reply to. Carson was wary, watching Thomas’ expression carefully for possible cracks in the facade. So exhausted was Thomas (despite his solid sleep at Baxter’s side) that he could not make a thick mask and instead simply stared glumly at his bare plate. When Daisy came around with a teapot to offer everyone a cup, she gave him a disappointed expression at his wasted cup and took it away to replace it with a fresh one. With Mr. Moseley now gone the table was far more quiet; he’d always been the chatty ones in the mornings. There was a saddened air from the Bates, who seemed to genuinely miss his company. 

It made Thomas want to vomit. 

Breakfast was brought around with the same flare as always. Bacon, sausage and eggs made the rounds along with mushrooms and baked beans. Toast and tomatoes came out last, capped off with black pudding, and everyone tucked in before the upstairs bells could start ringing. Thomas could not find it in him to eat, and even felt nauseas as he observed his food. He had not wanted to be alive to see this meal. He’d wanted to be dead by now, safe in Edward’s arms. When he did not make to put food onto his plate, Mr. Carson started passing around sausage and eggs for everyone to take (as was his usual duty at the table’s head). When Thomas received his own he stared down on it praying he wouldn’t vomit, and instead plucked up a slice of toast. He nibbled on it timidly, comparing it to sawdust in his mouth. It made him take a hasty sip of tea, which reminded him of bath water. He grimaced, setting both down to take a deep breath and pray for the end. 

But Carson was talking. 

“Mrs. Hughes is going to be receiving new linens today.” Carson spoke up, causing several heads to turn at his mighty voice. Head bowed, Thomas continued to stare at his toast, willing himself for another bite. Maybe what it needed was beans, or jam, “Andrew, you can help her take in the new linens and package the old ones for the homeless.” Carson ordered, “Thomas-“ He turned to Thomas, giving him a disapproving stare, “Since you were so willing to scour Mrs. Patmore’s pots yesterday, I’m putting you on clock duty today. After you’re finished, you and Andrew can clean the silver together- it’ll be good for him to get your take on it.” 

Thomas blinked, wondering if fixing the clocks was Carson’s way of rewarding him during this trying time. He’d always liked fixing clocks once upon a time, but now with bandaged hands and sawdust for toast, Thomas couldn’t find much pleasure in anything. What was the point of toast anyways, or clocks? What did it matter what time it was when Thomas didn’t even want to be alive to see it? 

“It’ll be odd with Mr. Moseley gone.” Anna spoke up, munching her way through beans and black pudding, “But I’m glad he’s pursuing his dream. Those children are really lucky to have him as a teacher. I suspect you’ll miss him, Ms. Baxter?” 

“Yes, I will.” Baxter replied, cutting into her own sausage. Thomas noticed his silverware set had not included a knife this time. Had he been in a hungrier mood he would have had to use the side of his fork to cut his sausage. 

“I think we all will.” Mrs. Hughes added around a mouth full of porridge, “But he can always visit, and I doubt we’ve seen the last of him.” 

Gallant Mr. Moseley, off to save the day and live his dream- finally able to recognize his purpose and beloved by all. It made Thomas’ toast that much harder to eat, and he set down his tea cup upon its saucer to rise up from his chair. Mrs. Hughes, Mr. Carson, and Baxter all watched him go, each more wary than the last. 

“And just where do you think you’re going?” Mrs. Hughes asked, “You haven’t eaten any breakfast.” 

“I’m not hungry.” Thomas said, making to leave the hall. 

“Sit back down.” Carson ordered, “Until everyone is finished with their meal.” 

“I need to get started on th-“ 

“Sit. Down.” Carson’s voice had an incredible finality to it. Thomas heard suppressed snickering down the table and knew that Bates found this all very amusing in some sick way. Cowed, he slowly sat back down in his new seat and stared unappeased at his meagre toast. 

“You ought to eat more,” Mrs. Hughes urged from across the table, chewing on her eggs, “You have a full day of work ahead of you. It won’t do to get tired on your first day back.” 

Unsure of what else to do and unwilling to touch more food, Thomas took another meagre bite of toast. Once again, it tasted like shit. 

An awkward pause fell over the table as Thomas fumbled around his mouthful of toast. He made to swallow it down with tea, but stopped even as he reached for the teacup. He’d rather chug it down blind than take another sip of that brew again. 

“I’m glad to have you back.” Baxter said in the silence, “It’s good to get things back to normal.” 

She seemed to realize when she said it just all that it implied, and Thomas stared across the table at Mrs. Hughes who watched him carefully as she took another bite full of eggs. 

He looked down at his plate, at the sausages and eggs, at the beans and the toast that now had two bites out of it. 

Across the table from him, Bates glared at him dully over his half-finished cup of coffee and clean plate. 

“Why are you behaving so strangely?” Bates demanded, still grouchy without his second cup of coffee.

At his side, Anna munched on her bacon and patted his hand atop the table, “I’m sure it’s nothing.” she soothed her husband, “the flue’s not a picnic.” 

Bates continued to stare at him quite aggressive. Without the energy to fight it, Thomas merely looked limpidly at his lap till breakfast was finally deemed over. 

He rose to begin the day, the toast already beginning to make his stomach churn. 

Carson deemed himself the one and only man needed to usher in breakfast, leaving Andy and Thomas free to get to work. Andy headed out back with Mrs. Hughes to help her bring in the new boxes of linens, and Thomas found his hands full of dusty (if not angry) clocks that were all clamoring for attention at the same time. Though Andy had known how to wind them, he’d not done it properly and he’d forgotten to dust. Worst of all, he hadn’t oiled, so now there were five clocks yowling for care and Thomas couldn’t move fast enough to appease them. Now Thomas sat out back at his old table, cleaning clocks while Andy bustled back and forth around him carting in new linens and boxing up old ones. 

The first was a Boulle Fusee mantel clock from the upstairs drawing room, which was angry and ornery at being abandoned for so long. It was an ornamental piece, in need of tender loving care, and Thomas soothed it as best he could while he wiped off a years worth of grime. By the time he was done a whole rag was sooty black and clock looked ready for a debute ball. 

The second clock was a Regency Bracket from Mrs. Hughes’ office, positively baffled as to why no one had dusted it for over a year. Thomas made sure to push the hands gently into position, oiled the gears and testing the time weights till they were balanced perfectly. It certainly was appreciative, ticking merrily after he was done. 

The third clock was a George the 3rd with a Repeating Bracket, one of the more rare clocks and belonging to Lord Grantham’s personal study. The fourth was a mahogany cased fusee timepiece, a relatively new clock from the servant’s hall that was still working out its gears and refusing to tell time properly. The fifth and final clock was a French Open Escapement Drum Head, by the far the most difficult to tackle given its swinging pendulum set on a balancing scale more than a hundred years old. Thomas moved slowly, not even daring to breath in the same direction as the clock lest he off set the balancing weight. It took him over an hour to finish, and when he was finally done he felt like he’d run a marathon. He closed the backing, wiping his hands on his soiled green apron and and pushing the clock across the table so that it could join its fellows on the other edge. Exhausted with the hour nearing noon, he laid his head down in his arms and prayed to god for an end. 

But an end didn’t come. 

He sat back up, taking a deep sniff and pulled the French Open back over. He began to polish it with care, even going so far as to stop the pendulum in order to polish it too. His soliloquy was broken by Baxter who came out the back stoop clearly looking for him. She smiled in her approach, sitting on the bench next to him to observe all his clocks. 

“You look like your father.” She murmured. Thomas gave her no answer, he knew it well enough. After being beaten by his father for such crimes as sneezing in his presence or forgetting it was a Thursday, Thomas took no pleasure in being reminded he looked like his father. His mother had once openly proclaimed that had he not looked like his father, she wouldn’t have known him for one of her own brood. His siblings had laughed. 

He’d cried that night. 

“How are you getting on?” She asked. 

For a moment it was fine as Thomas polished the pendulum. Quite fine. honestly fine. 

And then it wasn’t and Thomas wanted to cry. 

He pushed the clock away, putting his head in his arms again to keep Baxter from seeing his morbid expression. But instead of sitting stoic, Baxter came to his side and put her arms around him. She seemed to be covering him, trying to protect him just like before; it would do her no good. 

“It’s too much.” Baxter protested, “You need a lighter work load. I’m going to talk to Mr. Carson about it-“ She rose up, making a bee line for the back door. Thomas reached up, seizing her hand, but the action put horrible strain on his sutures and he cried out in pain. Baxter whipped around, effectively stopped as she cupped his wrists in her hands. 

She sat back down on the bench, his hands still in her own. 

“I have to work.” He mumbled, clenching and unclenching his fingers to cope with the stinging, “If I don’t I won’t have worth.” 

“That’s not true.” Baxter beseeched, “You have plenty of worth-“ she squeezed his fingers gently, but Thomas pulled his hands away. Instead he took up the clock again, continuing to polish it. Baxter watched, maintaining that slight nervous disposition she always seemed to carry no matter what. 

“…They’re tired.” Thomas said, gesturing to the clocks in dismay. “Dusty. No one’s been taking care of them- is this what Andy calls good clock care? It’s a miracle they still tell time.” 

“You sound like your father just now.” Baxter mused, a smile beginning to stretch her thin lips. Thomas decided not to acknowledge the supposed compliment, “Thank goodness you’re working on the clocks. Andy wasn’t up to scratch. Now they have you… how lucky they are.” 

Thomas brushed a speck of dust off the top of the French Open, pushing it aside to pull back the Boulle Fusee. He observed its artwork: maidens dancing in loose greek robes about a field. They clutched each other’s hands, their hair bound in ribbons and butterflies. He began to polish with precious care, each edge and curve passing underneath the touch of his cloth till the clock shone like silver. Baxter watched the entire time in silence, unwilling to interrupt him in his work. From the back door, Andy suddenly came out followed by Mrs. Hughes, carrying an enormous load of boxed linens that seemed bound for the outer stoop of the back area. Sure enough, even as Andy trod toward the gate, a milk truck made over into a delivery wagon came around the bend puttering and clacking with a bad engine. A delivery man slumped out of the driver’s seat, coming around the back to open up the tailgate so that Andy to hand over the crates one at a time to another young man who was apparently waiting in the cab. As they worked, Mrs. Hughes oversaw the whole production. She waited by the doorstep for Andy to return once the last crate was loaded. One turn of the key later, the delivery wagon was on its way to its next stop. Andy wiped a bead of sweat from his brow with a handkerchief, stuffing it back into his pocket as he approached the stoop. 

“Anything else, Mrs. Hughes?” Andy asked. 

“See if you can give Mrs. Patmore a hand.” She offered, “The luncheon is almost ready.” 

Andy was off like a shot, ready to be assistance, and entered into the house once more without even acknowledging Thomas sitting nearby. Mrs. Hughes stepped ever closer, addressing Baxter first. 

“Ms. Baxter,” Mrs. Hughes said, “Her ladyship is looking for you.” 

“Right.” Baxter rose up, just like Andy in her work ethic. She patted Thomas gently on the back, stepping away to collect her skirts so that they didn’t snag on the edge of the bench. “Don’t overwork yourself, Thomas. Take it slow, it’s only your first day back.” 

She moved away, but before she left she leaned in to whisper something in Mrs. Hughes’ ear. Mrs. Hughes listened with rapt attention, nodding as Baxter leaned away and headed for the door. Mrs. Hughes plastered her friendly smile back on, stepping around to take Ms. Baxter’s seat upon the work bench as Thomas continued to polish his clock. 

“How are you feeling?” She asked. Thomas had no answer and merely shook his head as he continued to polish. 

“I told Mr. Carson not to push you too hard but he believe in your abilities.” Mrs. Hughes said, in a way that he supposed ought to be endearing, “I think he missed you as first footman. Poor Mr. Moseley was never up to your snuff.” She chuckled. 

Thomas stared at the clock in his hands and contemplated using it to bash his own skull in. 

Mrs. Hughes turned and observed him, truly taking him in with wary discontent eyes. She seemed displeased, almost disappointed as she murmured in a soft bitter voice, “Is there any way that I can help you? Any way at all?” 

But this question was redundant. No one could help him because Thomas was no longer connected to the human race. He was not even human himself. He was a ghost, a figure upon the wall that moved like a shadow and was equally just as forgotten when he left. Even those he lived with on a daily basis did not notice him anymore. 

 

“No one can help me, Mrs. Hughes.” Thomas whispered. “I’m already dead.” 

Mrs. Hughes leaned in, caressing his hand just as Baxter had done only moments before. Was this the universal way of administering care? Patting someone’s hand for five seconds and then leaving them to kill themselves a third time? Christ, people were thick. 

“You’re not dead, Thomas.” She murmured sweetly, trying to meet his eyes. He did not give her the satisfaction, continuing to stare at the clock before him, “You may not have many friends here, but I am one of them.” 

He doubted it. 

Before this ridiculous display of false kindness could go on any further, the back door opened one more time to reveal Mr. Carson, large and imposing in the doorway. He observed Mrs. Hughes’ hold on Thomas’ limp hand with a wary eye, causing her to set his hand down immediately as she rose up from the bench and greeted her husband with a smile. 

“You’re finished?” Mr. Carson noted Thomas’ work, “Very good, if you’ll leave those for the hall boy, I need you to serve the luncheon-“ 

“I can take them Mr. Carson-“ Thomas rose up, feeling almost defensive of his precious clocks. Mr. Carson was far from amused, quirking a heavy eyebrow as he jerked his thumb dismissively over his massive shoulder. 

“You won’t have enough time, into the kitchen as I say.” He demanded. 

Cowed again, Thomas rose from the bench and stepped around, heading for the back door before Carson could add any more insult to injury. Mrs. Hughes tried for a reprieve calling out, “It’s very helpful of you, Thomas!” 

But it was a lie. Everything they said and did were lies. They bathed in lies. They ate lies. They wore lies, even in their sleep. 

Before the shift in stature, it had been Thomas’ job to lay out the dinner placements with Andy in tow. He’d shown Andy how to lay out the settings and food accordingly while Carson supervised over them all. Now, with Carson officially the top dog and none to question his judgement, Thomas was officially down to serving station only so that he remained downstairs while Carson took care of the placements himself. Even when Thomas had offered, considering it his job as first footman, Carson had merely suggested that it was unnecessary with both Lady Edith, Lady Mary, and Sir Henry Talbot now out of the house. There was on his lordship and her ladyship to care for… as well as Branson, who rarely caused a fuss. The only real trouble tonight was that both the Dowager Countess and Mrs. Crawley were coming to dinner and might present a problem in their usual flare. Mr. Carson still didn’t consider it worthy of a first footman, so Thomas stayed below in the kitchen, waiting for the cue to go up with the meat platter. 

Tonight it was cold ham, a thick thigh bone sliced thin by the same meat cleaver Thomas had tried to use in a suicide attempt not twenty four hours ago. He stared longingly at the knife as Mrs. Patmore continued to slice, absence to the way that Mrs. Patmore watched him carefully and made sure to stow her knife in her apron pocket instead of putting it directly into the sink. 

Carson re appeared, a signal that it was time to move, and Thomas instinctively reached out with gloved hands to take up the meat tray. The weight of the tray, however, proved to be too much for Thomas’ sutures. A sharp burst of pain caused Thomas to nearly drop the tray to the floor, and at last minute he saved the dish by instead placing it hastily back on the kitchen counter. He grimaced, eyes closed, wishing he could take his wrists in hand and rub them.

“Don’t tell us you’ve gone and hurt yourself the first day back!” Daisy’s voice cut over the air. Thomas glanced up and saw her scowling at him from the stove, clearly displeased and thinking him slacking. 

“What’s this?” Carson demanded irritably, coming around the kitchen counter to see that Thomas had let go of his tray handles. 

“Something’s wrong with Thomas’ wrists.” Daisy declared. 

Mrs. Patmore, Mr. Carson, and Andy all looked around unnerved. Panicking, Thomas quickly picked back up his tray despite the sharp pain in his wrists. 

“It’s nothing, Mr. Carson.” Thomas said, stepping around both Andy and Mr. Carson in order to exit the kitchen, “I’m fine.” 

Upstairs, dinner was in full swing. 

The lighting was low, the company was few, and a family atmosphere had settled over the entire situation. With Lady Mary and Lady Edith now gone (one on honeymoon, one in London), much of the hostility they’d always carried had been taken away with them. Now, the only real weapon in the dining room was the Dowager’s tongue; dressed in pale blue, she looked like a very irritable bird with a feather poking out of her iron curls and a scowl upon her withered face. Mrs. Crawley was as benevolent as ever, swathed in gentlest mauve and deep in conversation with Branson about new changes in the village. Lord and Lady Grantham made eyes at each other from across the table, which was slightly disgusting given that they were older than Thomas’ parents and frankly shouldn’t be allowed to still procreate. 

Thomas walked counter clockwise about the table, serving meat silently and desperately trying not to meet anyone’s eyes. He’d be a fool not to notice that both Lord and Lady Grantham were watching him like hawks. Unnervingly enough, so was Mrs. Crawley, though she was careful not to be too obvious about it as she kept Branson occupied. Each time he dipped down low, meat in hand, his sutures screamed for mercy. First came Lord Grantham, then Branson, both of whom took meat but said nothing to him. After that it was the Dowager, Lady Grantham and finally Mrs. Crawley. As Thomas saved her, he noticed her watching him with a gentle eye in the corner, dainty as she plucked meat from his plate. 

Thomas winced as she set the fork back down, the shift in weight causing his sutures to sting. 

“Barrow, are you well?” The Dowager spoke up. Thomas glanced up, sweating to see the old woman staring him down like a vulture might an appetizing display. Why was she always calling out to him in the dining room? When had he so captivated her attention to demand her constant audience? This wasn’t the first time she’d publicly spoken to him before the others. 

I should have never danced with you, Thomas thought bitterly as he straightened up and took the meat platter with him. 

“Carson, have you been overworking him again?” The Dowager demanded. Carson looked positively affronted, feathers rumpled and concentration compromised. “He looks positively haggard. And he’s wearing a footman’s livery-!” The Dowager added with a cocky little titter, “Either we’re in a very bad dream of his or reality has changed as we know it.” 

“Thomas has been unwell as of late, My lady.” Was Carson’s smooth reply, “He’s recovering now, and has consented to help serve dinner for which we are most grateful.” Though from the way Carson said it you’d be amazed if they were even half-amused as a whole, “He has likewise accepted to take over the role of first footman now that Mr. Moseley has become a school teacher.” 

Branson glanced up from his plate, perhaps mystified that Thomas would accept such a down step in his otherwise notorious career. Lord Grantham looked slightly disturbed but Lady Grantham took it in her stride even as the Dowager muttered, “Goodness. Things do change fast.” Into her peas and mash. 

“You must let us know if the strain is too much, Thomas.” Lady Grantham urged, in that simpering American accent of hers. 

“We wouldn’t want you to be overworked.” Lord Grantham added as he took a bite out of his ham. 

There wasn’t anything Thomas could say beyond this point besides “Thank you, M’lord.” Which resulted in him hiding along the back wall for the rest of the meal while Carson directed traffic and Andy brought around the vegetable platters. As the meal wrapped up and the family left for a private drink in the salon, Thomas and Andy took it upon themselves to clear up the dining hall and prepare it for night. Andy ferried dirty plates back and forth to the kitchens below while Carson served drinks in the salon and Thomas took care of the entree dishes. All the silver platters, all the silver period had to be carefully wrapped even when only being transported for the wash. As he slowly wrapped the last of the many silver trays in a felt cloth, Thomas found himself thinking about Edward and just how many times Thomas had spotted his ghost in the past week alone. Could it be that Edward was trying to contact him from beyond the grave, after failing to deliver his full message during Thomas’ initial suicide attempt? What if Edward had some dire message to reveal but couldn’t because of the veil that separated the land of the living? What if he was gashing his teeth and moaning, drifting from place to place and chasing Thomas through halls and courtyards alike in his desperate attempt to make his words known? For all Thomas knew Edward could be in this very room with him, standing right behind him- 

A hand upon his shoulder.   
“Thomas-“ 

Thomas jumped about a foot in the air, nearly dropping the silver platter as he whipped around to see Carson glowering at him. It seemed that drinks were over, and the family was finally left to their own devices. Andy was no doubt downstairs eager to plow his way through Mrs. Patmore’s cooking while Thomas took forever and a day to wrap a silver platter in a cloth. No wonder Carson had come to find him. 

“Steady on.” Carson groused, irritated at Thomas’ jumpy composure. 

“Mr. Carson.” Thomas’ heart was still pounding. He put a hand over his heart, feeling its erratic beat. 

“Earlier today, did my eyes deceived me or did your wrists seem to be troubling you?” 

While this might have sounded like an opportunity for explanation or comfort to some, Thomas knew it for what it really was… a threat. Should he be found unfit to work, he would lose his position in Downton and be cast into the streets despite what Baxter, Mrs. Hughes, or anybody else with a voice box and set of jaws seemed to say to him. Instead of answering Mr. Carson, Thomas therefor sat completely quiet as he continued to wrap his silver in cloth. 

Mr. Carson found this to be in poor taste. 

“I would appreciate the truth from you, even in your sorry state.” Carson might not have meant to, but the bite in his voice was aggressive and made Thomas even more jumpy than usual. He suddenly wanted to run from Carson, to hide up in his room- to stay there in the dark where no one could harm him or stop him from harming himself. 

“… Sutures.” Thomas mumbled, finding it impossible to say much else. Carson straightened up, seemingly soothed by simple answers. 

“You will let Andrew carry the meat until you can handle the weight of it.” Carson decided. 

Thomas blinked. He’d now been demoted from Under Butler to Second Footman in less than forty eight hours. What a week. 

On the other hand, he’d still refrained from urinating in his own bed. Credit should be given where credit was due. 

Yet as Thomas bowed his head and rubbed gently at his sore wrists, he forgot that Carson was still there watching him. Indeed he was quite lost in his own sad little world till Carson murmured, “Is it all too much for you?” 

And though he might have meant to say it with venom, Thomas couldn’t hear the threat in his voice. 

“I don’t know.” Thomas mumbled, a truth for a truth, “I can’t decide if I’m dead or alive.” 

Carson said nothing for a moment, watching placidly as Thomas finished wrapping silver. 

“You are alive.” Was all he said. 

Now with all tasks complete, Thomas stacked his silver plates one atop the other so that they were neatly piled in a straight shot of five. As he made to pick it up, Carson cut him off with a sharp jerk of the wrist. Thomas stood silent with his hands at his sides as Carson picked up the stack of trays and made his way to the Dining Hall doors. Unbidden, Thomas opened the doors for Carson so that the pair of them could make their way out into the darkened Entrance Hall. 

The pair of them made their way down to the servant’s hall without another word, and when they reached their destination neither spoke of the conversation above. 

 

Dinner that night was a lively affair for everyone else, full of happy chatter as old friends listened to good news. Amid them all, Thomas remained silent staring at his plate of cold lamb and mash. Every time he tried to eat, he felt a wave of bile in his stomach. Yet as he remained still with his fork untouched, Baxter kept nudging him in the thigh. He couldn’t even get up out of his chair without Carson snarling at him. Thomas therefore sat through the entire meal silent only eating one spoon full of mash, while Baxter nudged him repeatedly in the thigh. He was certain come tomorrow morning he would have a bruise. 

When the meal was over and the plates were collected, Thomas noted Patmore’s bitter expression at his lack of appetite. When he tried to go upstairs, intent on sleep (or hiding, or whatever else one did when they didn’t want to live anymore) Mrs. Hughes demanded he do menial tasks (such as collect errant magazines no one wanted to read anymore, or fetch another log on the dwindling fire. Unable to go upstairs, and unable to join in any conversation (in truth even lacking desire to), Thomas merely sat in his old armchair by the fire and watched it burn the log he’d fetched. Around him, conversation kept fritzing in and out… something about the Bates’ expectant baby and Daisy finishing her tests… he couldn’t really make sense of it. 

No one cared about him anyway. Why did it matter if he knew their business or not? 

A hand fell upon his shoulder, stroking his flesh with a slim but steady thumb. He did not look around, uncaring for whom the hand belonged to. To him, a hand was just another hand… a touch was just another touch, and it didn’t really matter in the end if someone touched him or not. They never stayed and they never cared. 

My darling… the marbles whispered and rolled, My darling, my darling, my darling. 

“Is everything alright?” 

It seemed that his little reverie by the fire had caught the attention of Anna, who was passing by with her coat on her arm. It seemed she was about to leave for her cozy little love nest with Bates who was waiting by the door with his bowler hat in hand. The thumb and hand apparently belonged to Baxter; there was a feminine watch on the wrist. She waved her hand, as if urging Anna to simply let it be and walk away. 

But this action seemed to disturb Anna. She paused, trying to catch Thomas’ eye unsuccessfully, “Are you feeling any better today, Mr. Barrow?” 

Thomas didn’t move, didn’t speak, merely continued to stare at the fire.   
My darling… the hiss of the logs under the heat seemed to whisper. 

“If you’re still ill with the flue you shouldn’t be down here.” Bates grumbled, annoyed. 

“He’s fine, Mr. Bates.” Baxter put her hand back on Thomas’ shoulder as if to be silently supportive, “It’s just a little tiring the first day back.” 

“Never one for hard labor.” Mr. Bates sneered, un-supportively. Anna gave her husband a small sweet smile, maybe thinking it all a joke. But it had never been a joke between them. 

Baxter stayed resolutely silent, uncaring for confrontation. 

But as Bates watched from the doorway, he seemed to sense that Thomas’ silence had less to do with attitude and more to do with exhaustion. He stepped forward, dark brown eyes narrowed suspiciously. Thomas refused to meet his gaze either, staring instead at the fire. 

My darling… 

“Why are you behaving so weirdly?” Bates demanded softly, un eager for anyone else to overhear them as maids left for the night and Andy sat at the piano clonking out a pathetic tune for Daisy. “Even for you this is odd behavior. Don’t tell me you’ve kissed Andrew in his sleep.” He said with a small sneer. 

My darling… the fire whispered. My darling… the marbles replied. 

“… I tried to kill myself.” Thomas whispered.   
Bates froze. 

For a moment there was absolute silence between the four of them, made somehow even uglier by Andy’s ridiculous tune. Bates looked from Thomas’ gaunt face to his hands which lay still upon his lap. At the very edge of his shirt sleeves, his gauze cuffs were visible. Bates glanced to Anna who said nothing, to Baxter who remained silent, and sighed. 

“We’d best get on.” Anna said.   
Without another word the pair of them left. 

He didn’t know what he’d been expecting. Some kind of taunt, some sort or grumble or the other. He’d certainly not been expecting silence and it stung him. Bates was tribal by his own wife’s admission. He didn’t care for many people, and even if he had cared for many Thomas still wouldn’t have made the cut. He didn’t know why he’d hoped that if Bates found out he was suicidal- that he’d attempted to die- mercy would be shown. 

Maybe in a way silence was better than what Bates could have given.   
Maybe silence was better than cruelty.   
But silence was cruelty in and of itself. 

“Silence.” Thomas whispered, gaze upon the nearly finished logs. 

“He’s not the talkative sort.” Baxter consoled, coming around the armchair to stoop over so that Thomas had to meet her eyes. She gave him a tired smile, “Don’t worry about Mr. Bates. Just focus on getting better. Those clocks looked beautiful after you finished with them.” 

The piano faded into silence. Andy was done with his song. Daisy trotted back into the kitchen, a tray upon her hip as she collected the final round of cups from the empty servant’s table. Yawning, Andy rose from the piano bench and stretched his arms out wide. 

“I’m going up.” He said, rubbing slightly at the corner of his almond eyes, “Mr. Barrow?” He called out, “Care to join me?” 

“Yes, your’e tired-“ Baxter answered for him, “It’s time to get some sleep.” 

He rose from his chair, feeling incredibly cold without the warmth of the fire. Andy and Baxter both made their way out of the servant’s hall, Baxter turning off the lights as they left. 

In the dark of the hall, broken only in flickering shadows by an aching fire nearly dead, Thomas could not help but remember how he’d cowered in his armchair the night Downton had opened as a public house. How even as other has slept and dreamed of bright futures, Thomas had cried himself to sleep in the servant’s hall, terrified of tomorrow. 

“So my word still is still not good enough, Mr. Carson. After so many years.” 

“I only wish it were.” 

Thomas stopped, suddenly unable to take another step. 

“Thomas?” Baxter was pulling at his elbow. He jerked hard out of her grip, a wild hatred for the house and everyone under its roof filling him up. 

Flee! his mind screamed at him, Run! Get out of there! Leave! 

But where could he leave to, and with what money? 

Baxter was saying something but her voice was muted in his ears. He reached up, putting his hands over his ears, trying to block out even the dulled echo of her voice. Trying to block out anything- 

“What’s wrong?” Baxter was begging. “What’s happening? Are you having a bad moment?” 

But his lack of response seemed to scare her even more. 

“Thomas, talk to me!” She snapped. “Tell me what’s going on inside your head or how can I possible help?” 

“What’s all this?” Mrs. Patmore demanded, stepping out of her kitchen to find Andy on the stairs and Thomas holding his ground at the bottom. Half concealed in the gloom of the servant’s hall, Thomas tried to slink back into the shadows. Baxter stopped him, which only served to make him angrier. Couldn’t she leave well enough alone?

“Stop it!” Thomas hissed, jerking his hand away from Baxter for the second time, “Leave me alone!” Baxter gave him a reproachful look but he felt no remorse. 

“What’s wrong with you?” Baxter demanded, “Why are you acting this way? What’s happened?” 

Thomas tried to slink off into the darkness again, to sit in his armchair once more and sink into the gloom as he’d done on the night of the opening. When Baxter made to reach for his hand a third time, Thomas’ last strain of patience popped like an overly taut wire. 

“God damnit leave me alone!” Thomas’s voice was squeaked with tension and hysteria, causing Baxter to blanch. Andy looked decidedly uncomfortable, halfway up the stairs. He no doubt just wanted to get to bed but felt trapped there until someone said he could leave. 

“Leave me alone! Stop touching me, stop following me around! Are you daft?! Why can’t you just let me die?! What, are you bored or something?! Am I entertaining to you-“ 

A large hammish hand had taken him by the elbow and was pulling him hard. 

Thomas stumbled, trying to jerk away again, but this time he wasn’t so lucky. His captor proved not to be Baxter but Mrs. Patmore, who was much harder to wrestle free of as she drug him into the warmth and comfort of a gloomy kitchen where only Daisy squirreled away by a cooling stove. Out in the hallway, Andy was heading upstairs. Somehow it seemed that Mrs. Patmore had taken charge of the situation, much to Baxter’s relief who was practically sweating by this point. 

“Let me go!” Thomas demanded. Mrs. Patmore did so, but then blocked the entire door to the kitchen with her enormous girth so that Baxter and Andy could slip up the stairs. 

“Go to bed, I’ll take it from here.” Mrs. Patmore said. 

“Thank you, Mrs. Patmore.” Baxter said, finally showing her true colors with just how tired of Thomas she was. Friend, indeed. He’d known it was a play from the start. 

Thomas scoffed, appalled as Daisy blinked at him confusedly from the stove. But even she got the chop as Mrs. Patmore turned her back on Baxter and Andy to bid her one final command. 

“Daisy, set that plate on the side counter.” Mrs. patmore ordered, pointing from a large pewter food cover to her side table where only last night she’d sat with Mrs. Hughes. Daisy did as she was bid, lifting the food cover to reveal Thomas’ untouched dinner plate just as before. She brought it round the kitchen island, perching it upon the side table. “Now go to bed.” Mrs. Patmore said. “I can manage the rest.” 

Eager to get some much needed sleep, Daisy didn’t care about questions. She took off her apron, hung it upon a hook on the wall, and scooted past Mrs. Patmore to head up the stairs. As soon as her footsteps had faded, Mrs. Patmore pointed to the side table with clear authority.

“Sit” She demanded. Thomas scoffed again. 

“Get out of my way.” He spat, making for the door. As he reached her she threw out a large arm and stopped him from taking a single step. So weak was he from a day without food and intense labor that she steered him around with one hand, all but shoving him to the side table and forcing him down onto the seat. Thomas sat there, thoroughly cowed just like with Carson, blinking stupidly at his plate. 

Mrs. Patmore bustled around the kitchen, fetching a fork, napkin, and cup of tea. She brought all three back, sitting them before him and taking the seat opposite him so that they now stared one another down from across the table.

“Eat.” She demanded. 

“I can’t.” Thomas replied. 

“Until your plate is cleared, you don’t go to bed and neither do I.” Mrs. Patmore crossed her arms over her massive busom, scowling at him as he blinked once again at his plate. 

For some reason, hysteria was starting to rise within him. He was so tired, he just wanted to sleep. Why wouldn’t she let him sleep? Why wouldn’t everyone just leave him alone? 

“I’m tired.” Thomas beseeched her. 

“Well then, start eating.” Mrs. Patmore urged with a gesture of the hand. Thomas tried to speak but felt like he was choking on his tongue. 

“I can’t.” Thomas said again. 

“Try.” Was Mrs. Patmore’s answer. 

Thomas looked down at his plate, at the mash, kedgeree, and cold lamb. He felt the urge to vomit rise within him. 

“Pick up your fork.” She she ordered, “And take a bite. I know you’re hungry.” 

For a solid mute minute, he just stared at his plate, taking in the tiny details around the rim. He’d never noticed it before but the plates were decorated in miniature French flowers. He wondered how old these plates were, where they’d come from… were they cast offs? Or had the family bought them specifically for the servants? 

Mrs. Patmore scooted his fork towards him, pushing it by the prongs. The tip of its handle touched his nail bed. Knowing she’d only continue to pester him if he denied her, he picked up his fork and held it dumbly in his hand. 

He sat still for another minute, unsure of what to do next. What was his original task…? He’d forgotten. 

“Start with the mash.” Mrs. Patmore said. 

Thomas slowly brought his fork to the mash, loading it with the most meagre of bites. Frightened of what would come next, of vomiting in front of Mrs. Patmore or onto her sitting table, Thomas put the fork into his mouth and swallowed painfully. 

Mrs. Patmore watched him the entire time, her brown eyes calm and gentle. 

When he did not vomit, Thomas took another tentative bite.   
Then a third. 

As he ate, Mrs. Patmore took off her bonnet and her glasses, sighing as she pocket both. Her frizzy orange hair was dripping with sweat at the root, She rubbed at her eyes, massaging the bags underneath. Desperate to get this sordid punishment over, Thomas began shoveling food into his mouth as fast as he could till nearly all of his food was gone. He swallowed painfully around an enormous mouthful, jerking up out of his chair and heading for the door. Mrs. Patmore caught him by the elbow as he passed, dragging him back to his chair and forcing him to sit again. 

“What?” He demanded weakly. “I ate. Let me go to bed.” 

“You’re not finished.” Mrs. Patmore warned, rising from her chair and heading around the kitchen island. For a moment Thomas just watched her paranoid till she returned from the far refrigerator with a small covered bowl in hand. As she sat it before him and took off it’s ceramic top, Thomas was amazed to see that it was a lone remaining serving of Eton-mess, the desert from the upstair’s dinner. 

He’d never had anything this fine before. 

A mixture of cut strawberries, meringue, and cream, it was incredibly tempting for Thomas who’d had (in all honesty) a week from hell and needed a break. 

“Go on.” Mrs. Patmore urged softly. “Finish up.” 

He took the spoon she offered, dipping it into the Eton-mess and bringing it forth to taste it for himself. It was incredibly sweet and creamy with just a bit of tart at the end. It was heavenly, and Thomas closed his eyes to savor it. 

“Good?” Mrs. Patmore asked. 

“I shouldn’t be eating this.” Thomas murmured. He shook his head, setting his spoon down on his nearly cleared plate and sliding the bowl back towards Mrs. Patmore. “This isn’t for the likes of us.” 

“What the eyes don’t see the heart won’t hurt about.” Mrs. Patmore replied, sliding the bowl back to him, “And I don’t think they’ll miss one share, do you? Not when they’re all safe and tucked into bed with full tummies. You were the one about to go to bed hungry.” 

Thomas pursed his lips, looking from his bowl of offered Eton-mess to Mrs. Patmore who was perching her round chin in a hammish hand. 

Thomas sniffed, still feeling that he might be blamed somehow for all of this. 

“You should have some too.” Thomas mumbled, in an attempt to avoid being blamed for all of it, “If that’s how you really feel.” 

“Well, if you’re offering.” Mrs. Patmore grumbled, rising up and fetching her own spoon. She sat back down with a grunt, scooting her chair closer and dipping it into his bowl. She tasted her own desert, smacking her lips. Thomas watched as she grimaced and tilted her head from left to right. 

“Too much sugar.” Mrs. Patmore grumbled. “Daisy always goes heavy on the meringue.” 

Soothed, Thomas took back up his spoon and had another bite. 

The sat there, the pair of them eating in total silence. each mouth full was incredible and when the bowl was scraped clean the pair of them relaxed in their chairs licking their spoons free of every last drop. 

“Maybe the sugar wasn’t so bad.” Mrs. Patmore conceded, staking the cleaned bowl on top of Thomas’ dinner plate and pushing both aside. Now she drug his teacup forward so that it rattled on his saucer. She slid it to him urging him to drink with a wave of the hand. “But the sugar isn’t why we’re here, is it.” 

Thomas looked down at his lap, unsure of what was going to come next. 

“…By heck, Thomas.” She whispered, almost glaring at him now, “Why did you do it?” 

She crossed her arms over her chest again. “You’re better than that.” 

“I’m not.” Thomas mumbled into his lap. But this infuriated Mrs. Patmore. She scoffed and sneered loudly, rolling her eyes. 

“You are. Quit making excuses!” She snapped, “That’s all you ever do is complain, make trouble, and make excuses for your behavior and their results. You’re smarter than…” She leaned forward, looking over her shoulder for a moment to make sure no one was in the doorway, “Suicide.” She leaned back in her chair. “And you know it.” She paused, reaching back into her lap and putting on her glasses once more. 

“Let me see your wrists.” She demanded, hand out. 

This frightened Thomas more than anything else. To show her his wrists was oddly… damning. He couldn’t say why. Maybe it was just the horrible proof of what lay underneath his shirt sleeves. Maybe it was the fact that in a stranger’s eyes Thomas’ wrists were as good as handcuffs. Should the wrong person ever see them… he’d never make it out alive. 

But Mrs. Patmore was not the wrong person. He offered her one wrist, then another, and allowed her to unbutton his wrists so that she could push his shirt sleeves up and survey his gauze wraps. 

She turned his wrists this way and that, observing them in the light of her small lamp. She pulled back after a moment, pursing her lips. 

“I can make a poultice to help this heal faster.” Mrs. Patmore said, rising up from the table to head back to her kitchen island. She took Thomas’ plate and bowl with her to deposit them in the sink. 

“I don’t need your pity.” Thomas grumbled, toying gently with the cuffs of his shirt sleeves. Mrs. Patmore scoffed again, irritated as she laid out a cloth and began chopping up herbs with a large knife. 

“When someone offers you a favor, the appropriate answer is ‘thank you’.” Mrs. Patmore snapped as she chopped, “Not ‘I don’t need your pity’.” she waved the knife about as she talked, “Try saying that more often. It’ll do your shoddy reputation good.” 

Thomas rolled his eyes, wishing it were all that simple. That he could just say ‘thank you’ and make friends in the house again. But he was far past such simple… 

Such simple… 

Thomas stared, his eyes landing upon the bottom of a kitchen rack full of old egg crates yet to be thrown out and boxes of wrapped knives. There, stacked amid them all was an ancient ouija board long forgotten amid the clutter of the rest. 

“You know what to do! Bring out the board! I believe in you!” Edward had shouted, running pell mell through the hospital courtyard the morning of Lady Mary’s wedding. 

“It’s in the kitchens.” Edward had said only the other night, “Go to the kitchens.” 

… What if Edward hadn’t been talking about the meat cleaver? 

“Board-“ Thomas whispered to himself, barely an audible sound as Mrs. Patmore snarled, “Are you even listening to me?”

“Board-“ Thomas said again, wondering if he’d gotten the message wrong-

“What?” Mrs. Patmore harrumphed, setting down the knife irritably, “The devil board?” 

“Nothing.” Thomas suddenly realized just how foolish he sounded, particularly to Mrs. Patmore who’d already offered him more pity than strictly necessary “Sorry. I got distracted.” 

Mrs. Patmore paused, setting her freshly made poultice down. “.. Did you just say ‘sorry’?” She asked, staring in disbelief. 

Thomas rubbed his mouth, looking away lest he keep staring at the ouija board. Now that the thought had entered his mind he simply couldn’t put it away. What if he’d read the signals wrong? What if Edward hadn’t been telling him to kill himself the other night? 

In the bathtub, between worlds, Edward had tried to deliver a message only to fail as Thomas was jerked away back to the land of the living. Running through the hospital courtyard Edward had demanded Thomas ‘bring out the board’. Only the other night Edward had urged ‘It’s in the kitchen’. 

What if… 

Mrs. Patmore was back, bringing the poultice with her. She sat back down in her chair, staring at Thomas warily as she brought forth his wrists again and hesitantly made to unpin the bandages. Now came the hard part of unwrapping them- of admitting to what lay underneath. 

“…Maybe you were listening to me.” Mrs. Patmore mused as she unwound Thomas’ bandages. “My older sister Kate, her oldest was born under a shadow. Never smiled. Never laughed. That poor girl lived a hard life. She threw herself in front of a train… we never saw it coming.” Mrs. Patmore shook her head sadly, “My sister cried for months. No one could console her. My nephew Archie was her only saving grace.” 

She’d reached the final wrap of the bandage, and paused with pursed lips. 

“This might sting.” She admitted softly, then slowly drew back the final wrap of the gauze. 

“… God in heaven.” She whispered, absolutely horrified. The wounds were raw and deep, held together by thin black thread. They looked more ugly now than they had even when open and gushing blood. Mrs. Patmore just stared, mouth open in shock as she momentarily forgot all about her poultice. Thomas looked away, slightly ashamed, and Mrs. Patmore came abruptly to her senses as she picked up the poultice to lay it gingerly upon the swollen and abused flesh of his inner wrist. He hissed at the sudden prickling sting. 

“Bit of kindness might do you good, I wonder.” Mrs. Patmore muttered softly. 

And whether he said it for the undeserved bowl of Eton-mess he’d never been meant to have or the poultice he didn’t need, Thomas looked back around to catch her eye if only to say, “Thank you.” 

Mrs. Patmore nodded, solemn, “That’s more like it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to my readers and reviewers! I hope you are enjoying the story!


	4. Excuse Me, I Think I've Got a Heartache

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mary Crawley has a thought.   
> Thomas Barrow has a tumble.   
> Charles Carson has no eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just as a note this chapter (at the very end) contains graphic depictions of sleep paralysis. I'm unsure if someone would find that unnerving but if you suffer from it and do, please be aware it is included.

What started as one bowl of Eton-mess quickly turned into something much more complicated. 

It was natural to react to pain and suffering differently. Some desired to aid physically (like Baxter or Dr. Clarkson) where others wanted to sit and talk (Mrs. Hughes was a prime example). It really shouldn’t have surprised Thomas at all that Mrs. Patmore’s way of dealing with stress and sadness was food, whether she was cooking it for someone or eating it herself. In this way, if Mrs. Patmore didn’t like Thomas’ consumed portions, she’d drag him into the kitchen when all others were off to bed to force him to eat more. As a reward she’d let him sample the upstairs deserts if only to taste a spoonful herself. 

So it was that, as a week past by and then two, Thomas and Mrs. Patmore went through (in succession) Bombe Glaceé, Cherries Jubilee, a whole assortment of Flummeries, Raspberry Ripple, Spoom, Syllabub, Trifle, Treacle Tart, and of course Queen of Puddings. Their little routine was a simple one: Desert, Poultice, and Tea (in that order). They rarely got to bed before eleven, but it didn’t matter. Time for munching on an upstairs desert was time well spent. The only problem was that Mrs. Patmore insisted on talking the whole way through it, and often demanded Thomas cue in a comment or two lest she pull away the desert dish and chastise him without pudding for a reward. Thomas had never been one to insist he had a sweet tooth before, but now his eyes had been opened: he was a confirmed sugar addict. 

Second Footman, yes, but a confirmed sugar addict. 

Thomas sucked thoughtfully on a spoon full of Syllabub as Mrs. Patmore huffed and puffed over Daisy’s latest antics. Daisy herself had gone to bed over an hour ago, whining and moaning about Andy’s attentions which she apparently didn’t want. 

“I don’t understand it.” Mrs. Patmore sighed sadly, taking off her glasses to rub them free of sweat on her dirty apron, “I really don’t.” Thomas watched her, still sucking the sugar and milk from his spoon. 

“Daisy is being very difficult indeed. Poor Andrew is constantly fretting over her but she won’t turn her head. She pined for Alfred but then when he liked her she’d have nothing to do with him.” Irritated, Mrs. Patmore smacked her meaty fist down on the side table, causing Thomas’ Syllabub cup to rattle. He snatched it up at once, unwilling for it to fall over lest he lose his desert. “You know what her problem is?” Mrs. Patmore said “She can’t like a man if he likes her back.” 

Thomas couldn’t give half a nit. He just wanted to eat his Syllabub. 

“And do you know what your problem is?” Mrs. Patmore demanded, reaching out to snatch up his Syllabub cup before he could take another bite. Thomas grimaced, his spoon lodged tight in his mouth. Mrs. Patmore snatched that back too, nearly chipping his tooth. He winced, rubbing his sore lip as she brandished the spoon and cup at him like they were damning evidence to a heinous crime. “You don’t listen to a word I say unless you’re gobbling up my pudding!” 

Thomas blinked. Mrs. Patmore rolled her eyes and rose from her chair, taking Thomas’ bowl and spoon to the sink before tossing them in. 

Thomas sighed, slumping in his chair thoroughly put out. 

The only reason why Thomas hadn’t killed himself in the past two weeks (as stupid as it sounded) was because of Mrs. Patmore’s deserts. Thomas seldom ate anything during meals, thought he often had a cup of tea… but at night he delighted in watching the family eating dessert. Whatever they ate, he knew he would eat too. This night, as they’d eaten spoonfuls of Syllabub and talked about changes to the hospital, Thomas had had to stop himself from licking his lips. Life was hellish and miserable, with no one to talk to and nothing to say- but by god were the deserts grand. Alfred Nugent might have had a point, going about becoming a chef. He sighed, relaxing into his rickety chair as Mrs. Patmore began chopping up another poultice. As much as he feigned to admit it, they really were working. Only two weeks ago his cuts had been horribly raw and red, prone to bleeding if pressed. Now, thanks to Mrs. Patmore’s poultices, they were only slightly red and no longer bled if pushed. She returned to the table, fresh poultice in hand, and gently unbuttoned Thomas’ shirtsleeves to unwind his gauze bandages. 

He winced out of habit as she applied the poultice, eyes drifting across the room till they finally settled (as they always settled) upon the ouija board resting beneath the used egg crates. 

He’d not had a chance to use it yet. The marbles were angry at him for it. They rattled and bounced in his skull at night, hissing their frustration at his cowardice- at his lack of will. Did he want to die or not? They demanded his attention, and when he didn’t give it they only got angrier. 

_Hide in your Syllabub cup all you like_ , they hissed, _We’ll have you in the end_. 

“… Do you believe in ghosts?” Thomas asked, eyes still fixated on the ouija board. Mrs. Patmore didn’t even bother to glance up, too focused on his wrappings. 

“What…” Mrs. Patmore grumbled, dabbing at Thomas’ inflamed wrists with care, “Like dead people haunting the living?" 

Thomas looked over his shoulder, noting every shadow that hid in the corners. Which ones were alive and not? He couldn’t rightly say anymore. 

He turned back around, wondering if Mrs. Patmore would think him mad if he confessed his mind. But then again, did it truly matter anymore? Thomas caught her gaze, “I think I’m being haunted.” 

“Oh don’t start that rubbish.” She grumbled. But when Thomas did not make to rebuke her, she looked back up and slowly set down her poultice. She began to rewrap his bandages. “Who do you think you’re being haunted by?” 

It didn't matter if he lied anymore. Thomas watched her hands tuck his gauze, meaty fingers sliding through soft cloth, “Someone I loved who committed suicide during the war.” 

Mrs. Patmore was captivated by his answer. She finished tucking his gauze and pushed him over his cup of tea. Thomas took it, watching the steam twist and turn at its top while Mrs. Patmore added milk to her own. Thomas had never liked milk in his tea. He preferred lemon and honey while it was still piping hot. He slowly took a sip, allowing the burn on his lips and tongue to consume him. Nothing pleased him more than having blistered skin- to feel like the sun had cleansed him. 

“Have you seen him?” Mrs. Patmore asked, clearly curious. 

“…He tried to rescue me.” Thomas admitted, taking another sip of scalding tea. 

“In the war?” 

“in the bathtub.” 

This brought a change over Mrs. Patmore. She knew, no doubt from Mrs. Hughes, the details of his preliminary attempted suicide. After watching him hold a meat cleaver to his neck, she been incredibly pensive to ask him for any details about the day Thomas slit his wrist. To her, it seemed better to leave well enough alone. To simply allow him to take her poultices and leave well enough alone. Thomas knew deep down that she wanted to ask, that she wanted to understand. After her niece jumping in front of a train, Mrs. Patmore seemed more understanding than most that suicide could occur in a depressed individual. She’d taken the same point of view on his homosexuality, though of course she'd not been so much sympathetic as she had been aware. 

“I see him everywhere, now.” Thomas admitted, looking over his shoulder into the shadows again. He half expected to see Edward standing there, watching him with burning blue eyes. “He told me, he said, ‘use the board’.” Thomas glanced at the ouija board hiding beneath egg crates, “He must mean the ouija board." 

“Thomas listen to me-“ Mrs. Patmore cut him off, jostling his wrist a little so that his teacup rattled on its saucer. He looked back around to find her beseeching him with common sense he'd never been able to use, “You’ve been through a difficult time and you’re confused. You need to focus on healing yourself, not chasing after specters. D’you understand?” She paused, staring earnestly into his eyes. Thomas wondered what she saw there. “Focus on healing yourself.” 

Thomas looked down at his teacup. It was going cold. “Ghosts aren’t real.” She continued on, “But consequences for our actions are. Focus on that.” 

 

 

Being a footman again meant that Thomas was constantly fetching and carrying. The work he’d once designated to Andy and Mr. Moseley now belonged predominantly to himself which was fine. Thomas knew how to do it- and probably did it better than either of them. He followed Lady Grantham into the village when she needed someone to carry her packages. He polished silver and stacked linens till his arms were numb. He set meal after meal and served it alongside Andy and Carson. Sometimes Andy needed to help Mr. Mason with the pigs so Thomas did everything by himself. This might have bothered a newcomer but after being a footman for eight years, Thomas knew how to the job relatively well. 

He just hated it, was all. 

One afternoon, shortly following tea, Thomas was upstairs on the gallery floor taking packages for Lady Grantham to her chambers. It seemed she’d purchased a new hat or something in a gaudy box, and so Thomas had been sent to deliver it while Baxter was out in the village having lunch with Mr. Moseley. As he walked along at a truly dawdling pace, he heard the sound of pattering footsteps followed by a high pitched squeal of “Mr. Bawwow!” 

His legs were suddenly attacked from behind by little hands and arms. He looked down, smiling somberly to see George hugging him about the knees. He set down his hat box, reaching around to tousle George's blonde locks with a loving hand. 

“You’re bettah-“ George beamed up at him, his little teeth gapped and square. 

“Master George.” Thomas squatted down, pulling George close so that George could climb up against his thighs and stomach. It was a game they often played together, where George could do as he wished against Thomas' body like Thomas was his personal gym. By far George's favorite game was Pony, but there were others (such as swing and jump). 

“Can I have a piggy back?” George asked. Thomas glanced at the hat box, before promptly pushing it to the side. Responsibilities be damned; George came fist. Thomas grabbed him beneath the arm pits, “Of course you can-“ he said, heaving upward to rise to his feet. 

But at he did so, his sutures panged wildly and Thomas had to drop George immediately.

At the age of five, George weighed probably close to forty pounds. Still having difficulty picking up a five pound meat platter, George’s weight was entirely out of the question. It seemed piggy back rides would have to wait, making Thomas feel like a bastard as he observed George’s hurt expression. 

“Your hands-!” George's eyes grew wide with horror, and Thomas glanced down to see that the cuffs of his wrists were tinged in red. Eager to keep George from panicking, Thomas quickly let go of George entirely to hide his wrists better beneath the cuffs of his black jacket. “Are you hurt, Mr. Bawwow?” Like all children confronted with a wounded adult no longer in control, George was on the verge of panicking. Eager to sooth his fears, Thomas took George's face in his hands, rubbing the soft skin of his chubby cheeks with roughly padded fingers from a life of hard labor. 

“Don’t you fret, Master George.” Thomas assured him softly. At once, George seemed to relax, “I’m just fine.” 

“Are you sure?" 

“I’m quite sure. But…" Thomas paused for a small smile, “I sure could use some cheering up?” 

And he truly could. 

George beamed, his grin toothy and perfect as he reached up with both chubby hands to wrap his arms around Thomas’ neck. Thomas engulfed him in a tight hug, smelling the scent of soap and childhood at George’s neck. He pulled back, smiling and at peace as George reached up to touch his his slicked hair. 

“Don’t worry.” George assured him, “I’ll always cheer you up. You my best fweind.” 

As selfish as it was to gain his comfort from a child who could not understand the weight of caring for a mentally unwell person, Thomas hugged George tightly and sought solace from his words. Downstairs he was ignored and avoided, but with the children he was treated as a dear companion. What more could be asked for? False friendship from adults, or true ones from children? He pulled back again, contenting himself to gaze into George’s eyes. George reached out, tugging at Thomas’ bowtie so that it nearly came undone. He didn’t mind, he could easily put it right. George pulled it off entirely, staring at the loosened tie in his hands as he tried to do the knot again. He ended up more or less making a noose… he’d learn in time. 

“George-“ 

The reproachful voice of Lady Mary ascending the gallery stairs gave Thomas cause to let go of her son at once. He rose to his feet, well aware that his bowtie was still not on his neck and that he would be seen as underdressed. If Carson found out he’d no doubt beat him half to death with his walking cane. Lady Mary reached the top, noting that George was still holding tight to Thomas' knees and was fiddling with his loosened bowtie. 

“Are you bothering Mr. Barrow again?” Lady Mary kept that usually look of snide indifference even when speaking to her son, but it softened around the edges and Thomas knew that she adored him more than any other creature on earth (including Henry Talbot). George to her was no doubt the sole reminder of Matthew Crawley in a world that seemed determined to forget him. If Edward had had a son, Thomas would have loved him just as much. 

“I was cheering him up, Mama!” George protested with another toothy grin, looking down at his hands to wrap Thomas' bow tie about his fingers. 

“And having quite a todo with his tie.” Lady Mary took a few steps forward, reaching down to offer a slim fingered hand to George. At first Thomas thought she meant to pull him away, but instead she took Thomas’ tie from George’s hands and smoothed it out flat in her own. 

“We can't have you underdressed.” Lady Mary murmured, “Shall I retie your tie for you, seeing as George was so quick to take it off?” 

“I don’t mind, M’lady.” Thomas assured her, “I’ll put it right.” 

Lady Mary handed him back his tie; was it Thomas’ imagination or did she look the tiniest bit disappointed as he redid his tie. 

“Are you a little cheered, Barrow?” Lady Mary asked, trying to catch his eyes. Years of wearing the servant's blank in her presence made the act almost impossible and Thomas instead stared out across the gallery hall to the high arched window above the stairs filtering in daylight. Slight edges of dust made the rays visible so that as they drifted down they looked like physical beings in the air. As if he could reach out and touch them with his fingertips… though it would involve leaping over the edge. 

Now that he thought about it… 

“Barrow-?” 

Thomas started, looking back around at Lady Mary who instead of being miffed at being ignored instead looked quite worried. At his knees, George watched curious. 

“I… I best get on M’lady.” Thomas murmured his apology, “Lady Grantham’s hat has come in.” He bent over to pick the hatbox back up, dusting it a little at the edges. With one hand, Thomas reached down and gently stroked George’s blonde locks. George leaned into the touch affectionately, nuzzling Thomas’ hand. “As soon as my hands are better, I’ll give you pony rides all over the house. I promise.” 

“I’ll wait.” George promised him, still holding onto his legs, “You're my favowite.” 

Thomas pulled away from George with greatest disappointment, wishing he could stay forever playing in the hallways. But he was a footman, not a nanny, and he couldn't see how he would ever be one in a thousand years of progressive movement. It was a miracle Lady Mary even allowed him to touch her child at all, knowing what he was. 

_Child Molester_. 

_Pervert_. 

_Degenerate_. 

_Filth_. 

The marbles bounced and rolled in his head, occupying all conscious thought.   
Unknown to Thomas with his back turned, Lady Mary watched him go. In lieu of Barrow, her son took to her legs instead, holding her by the knees so that her plaid pencil skirt was tight to his fingers. Lady Mary gently stroked his hair just as Barrow had done, wondering. 

 

The next day, Thomas sat outside at the back area table repairing an antique of Lord Grantham’s: A marine chronometer in a Coromandle wood case. She wasn’t particularly old, being only from 1862, but she was a souvenir of the late Lord Grantham who apparently had had quite a fetish for mariner life. Andy had attempted to care for the chronometer months ago only to be stopped dead by Mr. Carson who wanted to instead send it to London. If Carson at the time had thought him in possession of a heart, he might have let Thomas have a crack at it. Of course, he hadn’t wanted Thomas to feel needed, so Thomas had never known the chronometer was in need of work. 

Now of course, things were different. Because apparently Carson was suddenly aware he had a heart. 

Bitter, Thomas plucked at the ruined spring which harnessed the balance wheel. Time and changing temperature had ruined her, and it seemed this particular clock had not been infused with bi-metallic strips that ought to have weighed against the center oscillation. Thomas would have to send out an order for an Elinvar strip weight… something to help the spring not go to waste every time the season changed. 

_Ow!_ the clock seemed to whimper as Thomas plucked angrily at the ruined spring again, _Please don’t hurt me_. 

“Sorry.” Thomas murmured softly, stroking the spring gently. Rust came off on his fingers. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.” 

The clock seemed to accept his apology and Thomas continued on. 

A crunch of gravel underfoot caused Thomas to pause mid pluck of the spring, looking about to see who it was that wanted to bother him. He half expected Baxter, no doubt coming around to urge him forward with well meant (if not slightly annoying) positivity. Instead it was- shock of all shocks- Lady Mary who looked as snooty as ever as she stepped out the back stoop. Shocked, Thomas rose to his feet at once, abandoning the clock on the table. 

“Anna said I might find you out here." Lady Mary explained, gesturing with a hand for Thomas to sit back down at the table. He remained on his feet, knowing full well that Carson would (one again) whack him with his walking cane if he got the chance. 

“M’lady.” Thomas wondered what on earth she wanted. 

“Please.” Lady Mary kept urging, and in a completely unfamiliar act she took it upon herself to perch on the end of Thomas’ workbench. It was probably so dirty it would leave a stain on her maroon dress. Wary, Thomas slowly sat down. 

_Jesus Christ I’m siting on the same bench with a lady of the nobility_. Thomas dared to glance at Lady Mary out of the corner of his eye. 

Should he work on his clock? Should he sit stock still? What did one do with a Lady besides serve her? 

Lady Mary seemed to realize Thomas was tense, and gave him her most pleasant of smiles. She reached out, fiddling gently with the broken spring of the chronometer. 

“I hope you don’t find it presumptuous of me, to barge in on you when you’re working.” 

“I’m hardly troubled, M’lady.” Thomas replied, though this was a bare faced lie and he had a feeling Lady Mary would know it. “Is there something I can help you with?” 

Lady Mary said nothing for a moment, and in the long silence that followed Thomas dared to slowly reach out and resume working on the chronometer. Lady Mary watched entranced as Thomas unloaded the balancing wheel from beneath the clock and began to polish it with a damp cloth full of cleaner. He wonder if the smell irritated her nose; he could hardly sense it anymore after years of working on it. 

“…I feel we’re in a similar position.” Lady Mary spoke up, causing Thomas to pause mid-pull of a spring, “Is that odd?” 

_What’s odd is you asking my opinion on anything_ , Thomas thought bitterly. He dared to glance at her again out of the corner of his eye. 

“Given all our differences.” Lady Mary said snootily, gesturing between them, “I still understand the struggle of not being well received.” 

“If I’m not liked, it’s my own fault, M’lady.” Thomas shook his head, The balancing wheel was beginning to gleam like fresh brass again. 

“Are you feeling any better?” Lady Mary asked, sounding slightly hopeful. If she was aiming for a positive answer she was in for a nasty surprise. 

“I’m not allowed to die, but I’m not allowed to live, M’lady.” Thomas muttered, eyes low. His bitterness showed in his voice, hardly tactful in front of a member of the family but he couldn't bloody help it, “What do I do? But simply breath and move my limbs till one day they stop-“ Thomas paused shaking his head again. “One day the numbness that keeps me alive will wear off, and I will die. That’s how I feel, M’lady.” he whispered. 

They were officially way outside the lines of acceptable conversation. Should Carson turn up at any point now, Thomas would be given his marching papers and a shoddy reference to match. Lady Mary did not look unnerved, instead she seemed greatly saddened though Thomas couldn't say why. He was a servant to her, nothing more. His pain wasn’t her priority. It wasn’t her anything. 

“George was worried about your hands.” Lady Mary said, completely bypassing the original conversation. “Are they healing?” 

“…Slowly, M’lady.” Thomas returned to the chronometer, polishing its balancer with care. 

“He’ll be happy when you’re well.” Lady Mary’s snooty charm was returning, “He’s utterly enchanted by your games. He even claimed you as his personal pony to papa then other day. It gave us all a laugh.” 

_At my expense no doubt_ , Thomas thought irritably as he wiped his hands free of cleaner. 

“He’s a charming boy.” Thomas mused, unable to keep from seeing George’s toothy grin in his mind, “An angel-“ but this was overstepping, even for his rare circumstances, and he started at once, dropping his eyes low in an act of submission, “Forgive me that was impertinent.” 

“Please.” Lady Mary didn’t seem troubled at all, “I enjoy your friendship with him.” 

Given that Lady Mary knew he was a homosexual, it meant more than he could say to have her approval. Lady Mary ran a few strands through her chestnut hair, and though Thomas would never tell her as much he noted a few gray strands near her bobbed bangs. Calling her son an angel was one thing, telling her she was going gray was another. Thomas was certain if he did he’d be out of the house in a heartbeat with a bruise in the shape of a heeled foot on his arse. 

“I’m going to York tomorrow for a hair appointment.” Lady Mary said, “I want you to come with me. There’s a pond across from my hair dresser, in a park. Ducks and swans are fed bread crumbs there, it’s quite enchanting. I think George would like it…” Lady Mary twiddled her elegant fingers in her lap, choosing her words carefully, “In lieu of your situation, a day out might do you some good. What do you say?” she proposed, trying to catch his eye again, “Shall you join me on a stroll?” 

Thomas set down his cleaning rag, knowing full well he had absolutely no choice, “If that is what your ladyship wishes.” 

“It is.” Lady Mary seemed quite pleased by this response, smiling smugly, “I’ll tell Carson.” At this she rose up, dusting off her backside. Yet as she made to head for the back door, their conversation concluded, she paused and turned her heel to look back at him. 

Thomas glanced up, in spite of himself. He noticed for the first time just hard Lady Mary’s eyes were. Her smile was smug and her tone often was snooty- but it was her eyes that held the true power. They could cut a man to the bone, he was certain. 

“Perhaps we might speak more openly while we’re there.” Lady Mary offered gently, “Less formality and more friendship.” 

Thomas sighed, fingers twiddling upon the brilliantly cleaned balancer. He sent her an apologetic look, “If that’s what you seek form me, you may be disappointed M’lady. I don’t know how to be a friend.” 

“I think you’ll be surprised, Barrow.” Was Lady Mary’s response. Her smug smile was back. 

“M’lady.” Was the only answer he could give. Lady Mary turned to go, exiting through the back door to leave Thomas alone on the area. 

_Pay attention to me!_ The clock begged on the table. Thomas glanced down, at once starting on the ruined springs again. 

“Yes, alright, alright-“ He grumbled softly. 

 

 

 

That night, as Thomas sat in the servants hall with a cold cup of tea before him, he pondered why it was that Lady Mary had deemed him worthy of company. His initial reaction to any kind of kindness was that is was rooted in pity or a need for appreciation. With Lady Mary it wasn’t so easy. She didn’t dwell in pity even for her friends, and she didn’t need anyone’s appreciation. When Lady Mary cut, she cut hard and without mercy. In that, she and Thomas were quite the same. Indeed…. he'd often admired her from afar, or at least her style. 

So why was she wasting her time on him? 

Anna came into the servant’s hall, looking tuckered out. She took her seat on the side side as Thomas but a chair apart, sighing as she rotated her ankles in her shoes. Thomas did not even look a her, his eyes trained on his cold teacup. 

_She could be playing an angle_ , he mused, _Maybe she needs my help plotting against someone like last time_. 

But who? 

“Lady Mary said you’re taking her into York tomorrow for her hair appointment.” Anna spoke up, “It’ll be nice to get out.” 

There was no reason for Lady Mary to be plotting anymore. Even Lady Edith was beyond her reach, safe in London and mourning the loss of her almost marriage. If Lady Mary was scheming against someone it was an outside party- 

“Why don’t you speak to me?" Anna asked, sounding quite disappointed in his clearly rude behavior. When Thomas did not immediately answer her, she leaned in disturbed, “Thomas?” 

He looked sharply to his left, glaring at Anna who leaned back in her seat at once. But even as Thomas thought to be rude and vicious, he felt all the energy leave him and he sighed exhausted. Anna seemed to register the fight had left him and she relaxed a little in his seat. 

“I don't know." was the only reply he could muster. “I'm tired.” 

Anna noted that his tea was completely undrunk and quite cold. She frowned. “Try to speak with others speak to you.” Anna offered, “Even if you're tired, it's only polite.” 

“You could do with some manners-“ 

Bates seemed to have been lurking in the doorway this whole time. With his back to the entrance, Thomas had been unawares. He did not deign to turn around, did not make to answer Bates even as he dared to slowly take the seat one limp at a time. As the legs of the chair drew out from the table, Thomas watched the tea in his cup ripple. Bates sank into his chair with a heavy ‘oomph’, glaring at Thomas all the while. 

Absolute silence engulfed the room. They were tense now, Thomas bluffing and Bates biding his time. 

 

“Mrs. Patmore said you were going on about ghosts.” Bates sounded more amused that curious. Thomas offered him no reply staring at his cold teacup. 

There was no point in attempting to drink it. He wanted a scalding hot one and would have to fetch it from the kitchen. 

“How are you carrying things with hurt wrists?” Thomas knew Bates didn’t care. He was just amused and probably bored. Thomas refused to answer at first, rising up and taking his cup of tea with him. As he turned to move towards the kitchen, Anna called out after him. 

“If you’re going to be with Lady Mary in York, would you get me a new headband for her hat? It would save me time ordering it.” 

Thomas nodded, a small jerk of the head. One errand or twelve it wouldn’t matter. He’d just be mindlessly wandering about York until he found a bridge to jump off of. 

“I don't know what I like less.” Bates sneered, just as Thomas crossed the threshold of the servant’s hall. “Him suicidal or him eager to survive.” 

“Mr. Bates.” Anna said, soft and only slightly reprimanding. “Nothing ungenerous.” 

“It’s only what he deserves.” Bates mused. 

Thomas wondered if Bates knew he’d heard. He wondered if Bates even cared. 

He headed into kitchen, mindless of where he was going, and nearly bumped into Gertie as she skirted out holding a tray for bearing away vacant drinks. She spotted his teacup, and took it, which was just as well because he was going to drop the cup at this rate. Inside the kitchen, Mrs. Patmore was working at her side table, drinking from a half finished cup of tea and pondering of Lady Grantham's requested dinners for the upcoming week. Daisy was no where about, perhaps already in bed or maybe squirreling about with Andy. In her solitude Mrs. Patmore didn’t look up to the doorway until Thomas’ shadow loomed over her meal plans. She glanced up, and started- she jumped a bit, clutching at her heart. 

“Oh, you gave me a fright." She spluttered. 

Thomas looked about the room, wondering if he might be able to get a fresh cup of tea from a kettle that was still hot. As he did so, he spotted the ouija board and stared at it longingly wondering if it might be feasible to- 

“Oh don’t start.” Mrs. Patmore grumbled, pushing out the chair opposite her, “Sit down.” 

Thomas did so, unwilling to put up a fight. Mrs. Patmore rose with a grunt from her own chair, trudging over to the stove and fetched a fresh cup of tea for them both. She retook her seat, passing him his cup, and Thomas drank at once. The sting of the heat soothed him, but could not block out Bates’ voice in his head. 

_“It's only what he deserves.”_

“Not another word about that ruddy board or I’ll have Mrs. Hughes put it up.” Mrs. Patmore warned. Thomas merely took another stinging sip of tea, “Now what are you on about, hmm?” she asked, taking off her glasses to put them in her apron pocket. 

Thomas looked down into his tea cup, staring at the rippling image of his own reflection. He wondered what Bates saw when he looked at Thomas. If he saw anything at all, or if Thomas was merely a ghost to him slipping from memory as soon as he was gone from the room. 

He wondered if Bates even knew that he had a heart. Even cared. 

“Well say something, or I’ll have it out of you-!” Mrs. Patmore warned, her patience running slightly short. 

“Bates… thinks I’m heartless.” Thomas spoke up to keep her from ranting at him. Mrs. Patmore paused, momentarily forgoing her teacup to stare at him instead. She looked slightly reproachful, perhaps wishing she hadn’t been so short with him. She glanced down, fiddling with her saucer and cup handle. 

“Well, you can hardly blame the poor man can you. You didn’t make it easy for him.” Mrs. Patmore said tersely. Thomas blinked into the reflection of his tea. Was it just his imagination or did he see a shadow behind him? 

_“It’s only what he deserves.”_

Mrs. Patmore sighed heavily before she spoke again; Thomas never lifted his eyes from his teacup. “You’ve made yourself a hole good and proper, but you can always climb out. It just takes one step at a time, and it won’t do you any good to sit like a stump at the bottom. Quit focusing on the problem and start focusing on the solution or you’ll drive yourself batty. You hear?” 

Thomas did not answer. 

“Do you hear what I’m saying?” Mrs. Patmore did not seem surprised when he remained silent. In an effort to make peace with her desert partner, she pushed a plate of biscuits across to him. “Have a biscuit.” She offered gently. 

Thomas took one, bit it in half, and said nothing more. 

 

The following day found Thomas leaving Downton shortly after breakfast (in which he ate nothing and instead merely sipped on a cup of tea). Lady Mary called for the chauffeur and waited with George by the front steps. In his tweed had and miniature morning jacket, George was absolutely delighted to be going on an adventure with his two favorite people. Thomas himself wore his dark brown day suit, hair slicked and cuffs hidden beneath the sleeves of his shirt. George held onto both Thomas and his mother’s hand, swinging between them both as he chattered on aimlessly about birds and flowers and how grand life was. Had it been anyone else in the world, Thomas would have wanted to punch them in the throat for their lies. Coming from George, though, Thomas knew it was naivety and innocence at its finest and treasured him. 

The car ride to York was incredibly awkward. The chauffeur, like everyone else downstairs, despised Thomas and sat in rigid silence as Thomas occupied the passenger seat. It was difficult to say whether or not he knew that Thomas had attempted suicide; either way he wouldn’t care. He just wanted Thomas out of his car and away from his sites. As they reached York and pulled alongside a stately curbed lined with upper class buildings wreathed in ancient marble, Thomas hopped out of the car just a second before it had officially stopped. He slammed the door in the driver's face with unnecessary force, glaring at him through the foggy glass as he went around back and opened the door for Lady Mary. She gave him a smug grin, stepping out of the car and fixing her scarlet cloche carefully atop her head. George hopped out after her, and Thomas shut the door after them. The chauffeur had stepped out of the car, examining the passenger side door for fingerprints which he quickly polished away by a rag. Clearly Thomas was too filthy to touch his precious car. 

“I'll be about an hour.” Lady Mary told the chauffeur, who tipped his hat and at once and made to clamber back into the car. He’d wait there the whole time, Thomas was certain, smoking a cigarette and reading a motor magazine. Thomas had bigger fish to fry, taking George’s hand as he and Lady Mary made their way into a fine fronted shop with wide glass doors and enormous potted ferns. They were well tended to, sporting exotic blooms even though they were clearly not native to England. They were greeted by a young woman at a fine front desk, a receptionist who took Lady Mary’s name and hurried up a set of polished marble stairs to no doubt alert her hairdresser. Lady Mary took off her cloche and hat, handing it to a man servant hung it over his arm. Lady Mary primped her hair, slipping her gloves off of her elegant hands to hand them over as well. 

“I’ll be about an hour, Thomas.” She repeated the same message she’d given to the chauffeur. “The lake is across the street if you'd like to take Master George.” 

"Anna wanted me to get a hat band, M’lady.” Thomas said. At his knees, George hugged tight to his leg and buried his face in the stiff tweed of Thomas’ trousers. He stroked his fingers absently through George’s hair. 

“There’s a shop on the corner she often uses.” Lady Mary replied, reaching into the pocket of her dark red dress to pull forth a small pouch full of rattling money. In that pouch alone was more than Thomas would make in three years, and it irked him. “Here.” She gave him three shillings, which he took. It would be more than enough to cover the hat band. He pocketed the money, bowing his head in submission. 

“M’lady.” Thomas said, “Shall I go there first?” 

“And then to the park.” Lady Mary agreed, “Pick me up at…” She paused, pulling forth an elegant lady's pocket watch from the same pocket she’d pulled her coin purse. She flicked it open, examining the time, “One.” 

“M’lady.” Thomas said in way of parting. 

Thomas could not carry George easily. In an effort to keep himself from having to lift George up (adding undue strain on his abused wrists) he had George hope up on a footstool and lifted him from there. George didn’t mind in the slightest, finding it quite an adventure as they left the hair salon and headed up the street towards the glistening hat shop. Now that Thomas looked, all these buildings seemed to be owned by the same fashion company- a mark of Saville Row. Perhaps Lady Mary was a brand enthusiast. 

“Did you know butterfwies are called “pappypons” in Fwench?” George babbled, arms linked around Thomas’ neck. 

“Is that so?” Thomas mused. 

“Fwench is magical.” George declared, giving Thomas a toothy grin, “If you speak Fwench right magical things will happen.” 

“Ahh…” Thomas grinned, cocking his eyebrow, “Tu êtes mon papillon.” 

“Ah!” George cried out in delight, kicking his little boots into Thomas’ side, “You speak Fwench!” 

“I do.” Thomas said, “I’ve even been to France.” 

Admittedly it was hell on earth at the time but still- one couldn’t pick and choose their vacations. 

“Was it magical?” George asked, eyes wide as saucers at the prospect. 

“It was something.” Thomas grimaced, coming upon the hat shop at long last. A few upper class women were musing at hats worth a fortune while their maids tottered behind hold massive amounts of parcels. One poor girl had to push a little cart because her mistress had bought too much for her to feasibly carry. Out front, several footmen were lurking about, smoking cigarettes and reading a scrap of the daily news. Thomas pushed through them, opening the door to step inside. 

He passed by a hat glistening in small feathers and sequins, noting its price of fifteen pounds. 

“Ce chapeau est trop coûteux.” Thomas mused irritably. George looked on in wonder. 

Hat bands were boxed, often coming in sets of five or ten. Thomas wondered if Anna would want more or less, but resigned in the end that it didn’t matter because it was Lady Mary’s money and he had plenty for both. So it was that Thomas picked up a box of ten hat bands and headed to the counter to pay for them. It shocked him that they were a pound. 

“What are you getting?” George asked as they waited in line behind a woman buying two identical cloches of deepest purple. 

“A hatband for Anna.” Thomas said. They took another step in line. 

“Why?” 

“Anna needs them for your mother’s hats.” 

They purchased the hat bands, and took them in a small paper sack that Thomas could put into his coat pocket. They left the hat shop, and after a moment of waiting for traffic to pause crossed the street to enter a small park centered around a pond. Benches and trails wrapped around its outer edge, giving people a chance to perch for a spell while they waited. Thomas spotted another footman lounging on a bench not too far away, smoking a cigarette and reading a paper. He payed them absolutely no mind; Thomas walked right to the edge of the pond till the toes of his shoes were in danger of becoming muddy. Ducks were swimming in large groups close by, each babbling for a piece of bread. A downtrodden woman selling crumbs for tuppence a bag was offering little paper sacks to upper class women that walked by. Most ignored her, too focused on conversation or eager to get away from her ‘grimy’ hands. Thomas walked over, George on his hip, and offered the woman two tuppence so that they might both have a bag of crumbs. Taking George over to an unused bench, Thomas set him down and helped him to hop off onto the grass. He immediately took off for the edge of the pond, bag of crumbs in hand, and Thomas had to hurry after him. 

 

As eager as George was to feed the ducks (and as eager as the ducks were to be fed) George was also nervous about approaching the birds. They were slightly vicious in how they pecked at each other, and were almost as big as him. To make him feel secure Thomas squatted upon his heels and allowed George to stand between his legs. Secure, knowing no ducks could attack him so long as Thomas was near, George threw crumbs at the ducks. 

He literally threw them, chucking fistfuls so that the poor ducks got bombarded with food like a war zone might bombs. They squawked and shifted, irritated at being assailed.

Thomas fetched crumbs from his own bag, cupping them into his palm and offering it out to the ducks. They were wary of approaching, but hunger won out over annoyance. Inch by inch they shifted forward, stretching their long necks out to gently nibble and peck at Thomas’ palm. George watched in wonder, growing still as the ducks grew closer and closer. 

George reached out with chubby fingers, and at first Thomas thought he might try and touch the ducks but instead George touched the edges of Thomas’ leather cuffs, toying with them. 

“What’s wong with your wists?” George asked, curious. 

Thomas scattered the rest of the crumbs on the ground crumbling up his paper sack and putting in his pocket next to Anna’s hatbands. Linking his arms around George’s pudgy tummy, Thomas regarded the ducks bickering at their feet for crumbs. 

If only it were all this simple: eat crumbs, swim, roost for the night. 

 

“I fell down.” Thomas said, wishing it wasn’t a half-lie. If he thought about it metaphorically, it wasn’t a lie at all. He did not want to lie to George… not when he loved him so. 

“I fell down once.” George said, “But I didn’t cwy.” 

“You’re much braver than I am.” Thomas praised, thinking of how often he’d wept the first two weeks, “I cried.” 

Eventually the hour past, and it was time to pick Lady Mary up from her hair appointment. Thomas had to have George step up on the bench again to pick him up, and carried him back across the road to enter the hair salon once more. The receptionist seemed to be waiting for him, and gave him a friendly if business smile to notify him that Lady Mary was done. Thomas could hear her voice at the top of the stairs, chatting amiably with someone that had an obnoxiously French accent. As she came down the stairs, however, Thomas was shocked to see that Lady Mary wasn’t chatting with a stranger at all but someone Thomas knew: a Paul Brickam of Southport who happened to also be-

“M’lady is superb.” Paul said in a fake French accent. Why in the hell was he acting like he was French? Thomas had to control himself lest his jaw drop from the stupidity of it all. Lady Mary’s hair didn’t look much different than before, save that the gray was gone and her ends were neatly trimmed. Thomas kept his eyes locked on Brickham, wondering what the hell was going on. 

“Ah, Barrow-“ Lady Mary said, addressing him as she reached the bottom step. Brickham glanced up shocked at the last name, and when he saw Thomas his dark brown eyes widened in reproach. Thomas said nothing to Brickham’s fake French accent, wondering if he had been putting it on for heirs since he had to be a barber to the rich. “Did you enjoy the ducks, Georgie?” 

“Mista Bawwow bought a hatband for your hat, mama.” George declared. 

“Very good.” Lady Mary said, most satisfied, “Anna will be pleased.” 

“He can speak Fwench!” George beamed, arms still locked around Thomas’ neck. 

“Can you?” Lady Mary mused, “I wasn’t aware.” 

Thomas glanced over Lady Mary’s shoulder at Brickham, “Profiter de votre faux accent.” 

“Pensez-vous que vous êtes drôle?” Brickham replied in the most obnoxious French accent one could muster. 

Thomas did not so much as bat an eyelash, aligning Brickham to the insufferable Gwen who’d lied to everyone and still gotten away with it for being one of the ‘good’ breed. 

“Je pense que je suis honnête.” Thomas warned. He turned, shifting George a little higher onto his aching hip. He heard Brickham make a soft irritable noise upon the stairs but did not so much as give him the time of day. If he wanted to lie and say he was French to make more money, fine. Meanwhile Thomas would have to bandage his wrists and beg for scraps for the rest of his miserable life. 

George seemed to sense he was upset and hugged him tighter around the neck. Lady Mary, to her credit, said absolutely nothing though Thomas had a feeling she could at least understand rudimentary French enough to recognize that not all was at it seemed. 

“I hope My lady has a most pleasant day.” Brickham said in his ridiculous accent. Lady Mary tipped her red cloche to him. 

“Monsieur.” 

They left the hair saloon together, stepping out on the pavement only for Lady Mary to turn and eye Thomas with great intruige. 

“Heavens, that was scandelous.” She joked. 

“His name is Paul Brickham, M’lady.” Thomas warned, causing Mary’s fine eyebrows to arch into her hairline. 

“So I presume he’s not French either.” Lady Mary added teasingly. 

“He’s from Southport, M’lady. I don’t like you being made a fool of.” 

“I see. Well.” Lady Mary huffed, mildly put off, “Every day a new surprise.” 

They walked across the street, careful for cars, and made their way back into the park. Lady Mary seemed to want to see the ducks instead of returning to their chauffeur. She perched herself upon a park bench, watching as ducks squabbled over bread and the bird-lady sold her wears. By her side, Thomas continued to hold George and dared not sit. 

“Georgie… Why don’t you run and play with the ducks?” Lady Mary offered, “Mr. Barrow and I will watch you.” 

George kicked to be let down. Wincing, Thomas had to drop him relatively fast to avoid the pain in his wrists but George didn’t mind. He bounded down the grassy slope, bursting into the ducks and causing a mild panic as they quickly ran away. 

“Sit.” Lady Mary offered. 

“I dare not, M’lady.” Thomas warned. 

“Are you afraid Carson will catch you?” Lady Mary joked. 

 

Thomas said nothing, watching George play with the ducks. He knew that Lady Mary wanted to feel they were on equal footing, though for what end-reason he could not gather. Maybe it was in her outlandish nature to want to be on better terms with her staff. Maybe after all her aid to the Bates she was now turning her cold eye upon him. 

Maybe she was bored. 

Thomas slowly walked around the back end of the bench and sat on the far end so that while they were occupying the same area they could almost have been mistaken for strangers. Lady Mary’s answer to this was to scoot over two paces, now sitting in the smack middle of the bench and nearly letting her knee touch Thomas’ own. 

“Lady Edith’s apartment is nearby here or so I’ve been told.” Lady Mary said after a long moment of silence. The wind stirred, causing long willow fronds to blow elegantly in the breeze, “I’ve never seen it.” 

Thomas presumed this was why he was here. To talk to Lady Mary outside of Downton’s restrictions in an area of mutual respect. Thomas carefully watched George pull up bits of grass; he chucked them at the ducks, determined to ‘feed’ them even without bread crumbs. 

“Would you like to see it, M’lady?” Thomas asked. 

“I would.” Lady Mary seemed surprised by her own answer, arching another eyebrow. “Michael Gregson was well known to the artist community. Apparently she met Virginia Wolfe.” 

Thomas wondered what that might have been like. If Wolfe was as eccentric as the papers said or merely misunderstood. 

They were quiet again for a long time, with Thomas taking no liberties and Lady Mary making no sudden moves. George had now found a collection of pebbles and was beginning to toss them (though thankfully not at the ducks). With each ‘plonk’ into the water, a tiny ripple and splash occurred. 

“So.” Lady Mary paused, “Who is your Lady Edith?” 

Thomas gave her a wary side glance, unwilling to take his eye off of George for long. He had a feeling he knew what she meant.

“You mean to say, who do I argue with, M’lady?” Thomas asked softly. 

“Who do you plot against?” Lady Mary corrected him with a terse smile, “Don’t think me above it-“ she warned at his wary stare, “As Lady Edith once said to me, I’m a ‘jealous scheming, conniving bitch’.” 

It was a shock to hear Lady Mary curse, and even more so to hear Lady Mary down talk herself. She was notoriously vain, able to back her own corner when even Thomas might conceded defeat. He would have been remiss to not notice the bitter tone in her voice- the way she did not seem to deny Lady Edith’s plight. 

But Thomas knew what it felt like to be the unpopular one; to be considered foul when you weren’t… he suddenly began to understand why Lady Mary wanted him to come today- to talk to him. 

She hadn’t been kidding when she’d thought them alike. 

“You’re none of those things… M’lady.” Thomas added the term quickly to register the distance between them. Lady Mary glanced at him, her expression softening into something akin to gentle liking. He’d rarely seen it grace her face. 

“I’ve often wondered if I am.” She admitted, picking at a spot on the cuff of her coat where a spare thread hung, “Matthew believed me about it all… but now a days I’m unsure.” 

“You ought to remember Mr. Matthew’s words.” Thomas offered, turning back to watch George ferret around at the edge of the bond near a thick clump of waist high weeds. “He knew you best.” 

“So who is your Lady Edith?” Lady Mary tried to turn the conversation back around, perhaps un eager to discuss her life with Matthew when she was newly married and trying to move on, “Or will you not tell me.” 

“… I suppose everyone.” Thomas admittedly bitterly, “Most of all Mr. Bates.” Thomas tried his hardest not to spit the name. 

“Would it surprise you if I said that it didn’t surprise me?” Lady Mary mused. Thomas shrugged. 

“You’re hardly the type to be deceived, M’lady.” Thomas was still having a hard time getting the bitterness out of his voice. George was now squatting amid the reeds. If he didn’t watch out he’d get mud on his trousers. 

“Neither are you.” Lady Mary added. Thomas wished he could right her incorrect assumption. The bitter fact of the matter was that he’d been tricked many a time in his life- worst of all by people he loved. 

The wind blew again, this time lifting the willow fronds up more. Lady Mary touched her cloche to keep it securely upon her head. Thomas’ coat collar ruffled around his neck. He allowed his eyes to carry all around the pond, watching rich women walk with their beaus or footman smoke on benches. It was by mere happenstance that he saw a familiar face across the pond, pondering underneath a shifting willow tree. Thomas did not even gasp at the shocking sight of Edward, eyes resting and curly hair blowing in the wind. He wore his army uniform, somehow enjoying his moment of peace even when at attention. 

“… I think I died.” 

The words fell from his mouth without warning, and hung in the air dangerous to acknowledge. Lady Mary paused, slowly dropping her hand from her cloche when it was safe. She stared at Thomas, unsure of what to say. 

“In the bathtub.” Thomas carried on, for explanation, “I was touched by someone I knew in life. Someone I loved who committed suicide too. He touched me, called me ‘My darling’… I think he’s haunting me now.” Thomas admitted, “I see him everywhere.” 

_“He’s right across the pond”_ Thomas so badly wanted to say. Instead he sat quiet. 

“… You astound me.” Lady Mary said, not unkindly, “Have you told anyone else about this?” 

“Mrs. Patmore.” Thomas admitted, “She thinks I’m barmy.” But then he realized that he hadn’t said ‘M’lady” and he was growing close to impertinence. “I’m sorry m’lady.” He blustered, “Forgive my impertinence.” 

“Don’t be sorry.” Lady Mary snorted at the mere idea, “If anyone has known pain, it’s you.” 

They did not talk more on the subject of Thomas possibly being haunted. Perhaps Lady Mary, as a member of the upper class, could not openly discuss grief or death with anyone. Even below stairs it was difficult to talk as Thomas did; maybe that was why he put so many people off. After a moment of due pause in which George fished around in the reeds for something neither Lady Mary nor Thomas could see, Lady Mary spoke up again on a decidedly different subject. 

“When I wed Mr. Talbot, Lady Edith surprised us all by coming back from London.” Lady Mary said. She tilted her head to the side, dark brown fringe falling about, “She told me that our shared memories would outstrip our shared bitterness. That for better or worse, we were sisters. I suppose you and Mr. Bates cannot claim the same to your own bond.” 

No, they could not. Thomas didn’t even think they had a bond. 

George had found something. He came scampering back from the reeds, clutching something between his hands with a delighted grin upon his face. He flew up the hill, cupped hands outstretched. 

“Mama!” He cried, “Mista Bawwow!” 

Both Lady Mary and Thomas were pulled from their bitter reverie, each smiling to George so that he could not discern their sadness. George thrust his hands out to Thomas, opening them to reveal a duck egg clumped slightly with feathers. He’d no doubt pulled it from a nest and a likened it to buried treasure. 

“Oh my goodness!” Thomas blurted out, “Where did you find this?”

“In the nest-“ George pointed back to the reeds in which he’d been searching. 

How to instill in a child the virtue of caring for unborn life? Thomas brought up the egg so that George could see it at eye level- such a strange little object. How could he best explain? 

“This is very precious, Master George.” Thomas urged, “This is a baby duck that’s not yet born.” He decided to let the facts speak for themselves and held up the egg to George’s ear. George waited in bracing anticipation, mouth opened to a small ‘o’. 

“Can you hear it?” Thomas whispered. Lady Mary leaned in, intruiged. 

George gasped, jerking back from the egg to gaze up in Thomas and Lady Mary in astounding wonder. 

“Mama it peeped!” George cried out. 

“Really?” Lady Mary relaxed upon the bench, that smug grin forming upon her face. Thomas realized now it was a lazy grin of satisfaction, not of cruelty, and decided he would never judge it for her again. Indeed, he rather liked it. It reminded him of a smile he used to wear himself when all was right in the world. 

Thomas smiled at Lady Mary, or at least, he tried to. She caught him and returned his affection. For a moment they simply locked eyes, worlds away and yet side by side on a park bench. 

In bizarre offering, Thomas lifted up the egg for her to hear. She slowly leaned in, eyes locked upon his and never shifting. He felt the shell of her ear beneath his fingers, the soft strands of her recently shampooed hair. Her smirk only widened after a moment and she pulled back. 

“You’d best put it back so it can hatch, Georgie.” Lady Mary urged. 

“I’ll put it back.” Thomas decided, rising up from the bench and crossing the short distance to the reeds to squat down and fish through their tall fronds. There, amid the mud, he saw a small nest full of eggs shaped rather like a donut. It seemed George had pulled it out from the center. Thomas gently sat the egg back inside, and rose up to dust his hands on his trousers. He returned to George, who’d clambered up on the bench to sit in Thomas’ old spot. Dropping to his knees again, Thomas fished out his handkerchief and carefully cleaned George’s fingers of mud and pond scum. 

“Will the duck think I’m its mama?” George asked, sounding decidedly worried at the prospect of being a parent while still five. 

“Not if we leave quickly.” Lady Mary assured him, “Come along, Barrow.” Lady Mary said, and Thomas straightened up to put back his handkerchief and take George’s hand. To his surprise, Lady Mary took his other so that George was happy as a picked peach between them. “We have a ride to catch.” 

 

The ride back home to Downton was just as quiet as the ride up, but Thomas found himself thinking more and more of using a ouija board to contact Edward and therefor did not pay attention to the scathing chauffeur. He supposed it would be easy enough to use it, after all he’d done it before. What would require diligence was not becoming obsessed with hope… with maintaining a sense of realism that just because Edward had talked to him in the realm between life and death did not mean that Edward would be able to communicate with him. Still… Thomas knew he had to try.

He returned home to find Downton unchanged, though Anna was mildly pleased to receive ten hat bands. She accepted them, put them in her purse, and said no more. Favors did not garner respect in the house. That night, at dinner, Thomas did not eat. He sat and stared at his plate of bubble and squeak, wondering at the feasibility of using a ouija board for a method of contact. Part of him still wanted to simply fling himself into oblivion…. but he doubted he’d be able to while under the roof of Downton Abbey. Someone would always whip around and yank him back. 

When Mrs. Patmore tried to get him to come into the kitchen, Thomas declined and instead went upstairs to bed. He lay there, awake in the dark and wondered… 

_My darling…_ Edward whispered, a shadow shifting from corner to corner in his room, _My darling, my darling, my darling_. 

The next day, Thomas spent most of his time downstairs doing errands for Mrs. Hughes. She’d gotten in another shipment of linens and Andy was at the farm helping Mr. Mason pulled a boar off a sow. Thomas ferried in box after box of new linens, ripping off the top of the crates so that maids could take out the new sheets between thick pieces of brown wrapping paper. When they were ready to filled again, in went the old sheets to good will and Thomas had to hammer back on the lids before ferrying the crates out to the car. He did it all in silence, finding the work numbing. Each time he passed a dark spot in the hallway, he waited just a second for Edward to appear. 

But no one was there. 

In a moment of downtime, Thomas sat at the table with a cup of tea before him. He sipped slowly from it, noting Mrs. Patmore had tried to slip him several biscuits with his tea. He sat them upon his saucer and slid it out to the middle of the table knowing someone would be bound to eat it eventually- probably Peter the lone hall boy. 

His silence was only broken by Bates, who came into the room to sit down in the arm chair by the fire. He said nothing to Thomas, not even acknowledging him as he picked up a newspaper and opened it wide to read the latest column. Thomas watched him, wondering. 

When he thought about it, Bates (like William) had grown on him in the end. There were times when he could be absolutely infuriating (mostly all the time) but Thomas no longer had the scathing desire to be his enemy. He didn’t want to be his friend- at least… Thomas didn’t think so. 

Maybe he did. 

Bates glanced up, noticing Thomas staring at him. He rolled his eyes, returning his gaze to his paper. 

“What.” Bates sneered without looking up from the paper, “More complaining? I’d have thought you were tired of it by now.” 

Thomas didn’t say anything, finding his tongue relatively mute when Bates was rude to him. He supposed in a detrimental sort of way, it was just deserts. he’d been cruel to Bates, now Bates was going to be cruel to him. 

But Bates glanced up from his paper again, and this time he seemed reproachful in an ugly sort of way. 

“What is it.” Bates muttered, still not truly caring. 

“… Lady Mary and Lady Edith….” Thomas didn’t quite know what to say now. “Made peace.” 

“Good.” Bates muttered behind his paper. 

“I don’t….” But Thomas broke off again. How could he voice the need inside him without being shot down? He didn’t even know what the need was himself. 

Bates slowly looked up from his paper, glaring warily at Thomas. Cowed, Thomas sat silent and pushed way his tea cup. 

 

A pattering of feet upon the floor. 

Without warning, George came running into the servant’s hall panting with blonde hair all askew. 

“Mista Bawwow!” He cried out, skittering around the side of the table to pull frantically upon Thomas’ sleeve. Thomas jumped, jerking up from his chair immediatly to take George in his arms. He seemed to be sweating profusely as if he’d run for quite a while. 

“Come quick!” George begged, “Come quick! She’s done a bunk!” 

“What’s going on?” Thomas demanded, running his hands quickly through George’s sweat slicked hair. “What happened?” 

Bates rose out of his chair, hobbling around the side of the table disturbed. George was still panting, looking up at Thomas with wide fearful eyes. Thomas’ brain was going through a reel of panic at this point, one probable disaster after another dancing in his brain. 

“Nanny took the jewels!” George wailed, seemingly quite frightened at being betrayed by an adult in whom he’d put trust. “She said if I told she’d beat me!” 

“What?!” Mr. Bates demanded, thunderstruck. 

“She took the jewels and told me not to tell!” George repeated. 

“When?” Mr. Bates demanded, unable to stoop over with his bad leg. He put a heavy hand upon George’s petite shoulder, trying to turn him away from Thomas’ stomach though George refused to budge, “Master George it’s very important that you tell us quickly.” 

“Just now!” George’s voice was weak and small. “I ran.” 

Thomas thought fast, his brain boiling over with anger at the thought of George being threatened by the Nanny. He knew her only in passing, a squat pudgy woman with curly iron gray hair. Thomas knew she wouldn’t be able to get far unless she had the head start. He was faster than her, in better shape- he could beat her to the punch and take back the jewels! 

“Stay here!” Thomas commanded of George, detracting George’s arms from around his waist to step around the servant’s table and make a bee line for the door. 

“Tell Mr. Carson!” Thomas shouted over his shoulder to Mr. Bates. 

 

He took off

After four weeks of living in state of rigor mortis, Thomas’ body was full of pent up energy desperate to get out. He couldn’t run from Downton, couldn’t run from suicidal impulses or death itself- but he could run after someone it seemed. If that person had to be the nanny then so bloody be it. He was almost compelled at this point to do something or die trying. 

Thomas charged up the servant’s stairs, hitting the main floor and bursting through the green door into the entry hall with such a fever that one might think there was another house fire occurring. He nearly knocked over a maid in his haze, passing right by Baxter coming down the stairs who cried out his name to his retreating back. Thomas could spare her no mind in the moment, could think only of his goal: the Earl’s bedroom. Yet as he reached the landing of the gallery floor, legs and lungs burning, he was greeted by the sight of Sybbie clutching her doll pointing down the hallway towards Lord Grantham’s bedroom. 

“Mister Barrow!” She cried out, “She took the jewels!”   
So it seemed Sybbie had been threatened too. 

“Show me!” Thomas commanded. Sybbie needed no further prompting, trusting him implicitly as she ran to the ajar door and pulled it open wide. Infuriated, Thomas burst through, eyes peeled for signs of theft, but he needn’t look far. A fine Anglo-indian carved sandalwood jewelry box sat askew upon Lady Grantham’s vanity dresser. Sybbie clutched her doll at the door, frightened to say any more lest she be punished by her errant nanny. Thomas flipped open the top of the jewelry box, jaw clenching instinctively when he saw that the sapphire necklace and earring set made for Lady Grantham’s countess position was gone from its blue velvet holster. In its place lay only a small hand written note with three words: Up the Workers. 

Furious, Thomas spun on the spot and ran back through the door leaving Sybbie behind. Baxter was coming up the hall, Branson right behind her- for whatever reason both of them looked panicked when they saw him and tried to grab him as he passed. Thomas jerked clean out of both their arms, determined to head the Nanny off before she could get out of Downton. 

“Thomas!” Branson shouted after him, angry. Thomas paid him no mind, taking the stairs two at a time and bursting past Mr. Carson who was coming up the stairs in a rush. 

Thomas hit the entrance hall, skidding slightly upon the carpeted floor as he took off for the front doors. They were mercifully ajar, saving Thomas the time of pushing them open as he sprang out into the soft late summer air. At the far edge of the property, where grass was overtaken by manicured wood, Thomas saw the figure of a woman cloaked and carrying a valise slipping into the brambles. 

Clearly someone had a death wish. 

Thomas had forgotten just how fast he could run (perhaps spurned on by the fact that he could not outrun his own situation and hadn’t smoked a single cigarette in three weeks); gravel flew up around his feet as he charged from stone, to grass, to woods. The Nanny would be mowed over if she didn’t pick up the pace, but as Thomas entered the woods the gloom caused him to fall up- which way had she gone? Thomas just kept going straight forward, praying he would either see her or catch sight of a trail. Fallen limbs underfoot and hidden potholes made his going stiff- but his speed was still surely much faster than anything the Nanny could put up. 

He hit a stream, the water freezing and going up to his knees as he jumped in. On the other side, climbing up the bank, Thomas saw slippery imprints of shoddy feet- it seemed the Nanny had come this way too. 

Spurned on and newly determined, Thomas forced himself through the river and up to the other side. His trouser legs were soaked nearly to the calve; his shoes full of water as he clambered up onto the bank. Hands now covered in mud, Thomas just kept charging on through the woods. He had no idea what would await him on the other side- where he even was as he came to an odd clearing devoid of trees or limbs. It seemed that at some point a hunter or gamekeeper had put up a very small cabin- barely even big enough to house a bed and resting on a foundation of stacked river stones. The door was ajar, revealing gloom within, and Thomas immediately flew inside- 

To promptly trip over a crate and fall with a crash to the floor. 

For a moment Thomas was completely knocked out of his senses, stars bursting before his eyes and breath jarred from his lungs. He lay there, gasping for breath as his head spun- he scrambled against the ground, coughing desperately for air in the dark. He gazed about, eyes adjusting to the gloom within, and saw that the shack was merely a storage unit for rusted gaming equipment that was surely useless now. A few crates, rotten and empty, were scattered about the floor- it seemed Thomas had tripped on one as he came in. 

Something on the floor caught his eye, distinctly different in shape and texture than the sooty wood on which it lay. It was so grimy Thomas couldn’t tell what it honestly was- he picked it up and felt it to discover it was a turquoise ring. Wiping it free, he gazed amazed at its light blue stones, all perched in a neat little row across the top of the golden band. 

He knew this ring. He’d seen Lady Grantham wear it countless times. It seemed the nanny had stolen more than just her countess set. Coughing, Thomas rose to his feet and slipped Lady Grantham’s ring into his pocket. He was absolutely filthy, his footman’s uniform torn at the cuff of his trousers. Mr. Carson would be furious when he saw. Bitter at the fate he knew awaited him, Thomas trudged from the tiny shed and stumbled back across the stream. The freezing water made his toes turn numb and halfway across he slipped to fall in on his side. Now his whole trousers were soaked to the skin; he was pretty certain his dick had shrunk an inch from the freezing water. Cursing, Thomas shivered in the water, hands bracing his sides and water rushing past his waist and elbows. 

He found himself looking up, looking out, following the stream in its course as it wound and turned around the bend about a thousand yards downwind. The sun was beginning to set, turning the sky a burning orange. Thomas squeezed his fingers in the mud, realizing that there were tiny pebbles in his hands. He felt them, washing silt away in the churning current as he fingered the pebbles. 

“Thomas.” 

Thomas jerked his head to the left, shocked that someone had found him so far into the woods; his heart skipped a beat when he realized it was only the ghost of Edward. He stood on the far bank, hand outstretched, urging him to get out of the river. 

“C’mon.” Edward urged, “You’re not a fish.” 

Touché. 

Thomas rose from the river, water dripping down his thighs and forearms. He trudged across the stream, shivering, and made his way onto the bank, fishing for Edward’s hand to grab. He met only air, and glanced up- 

He was alone. 

Thomas suddenly felt incredibly tired, exhausted even, and as he stumbled back onto the bank he wondered would it be such a crime to sit down and nap- 

But he really needed to get that ring back to Lady Grantham. 

Trudging out of the woods surely took an hour, or so it felt to Thomas. By the time he’d made his way out of the woods and back onto the lawn of Downton, the sun was well and truly setting with the sky a deep crimson. Crickets were serenading, making music for his walking as he finished his long trek back to the house. There were police cars out front, four in all as Thomas counted. He wondered if one was for him, to whisk him away to a mental asylum for chasing after a nanny through the woods. 

Without thinking, Thomas entered through the front door fingering Lady Grantham’s ring in his pocket. He found entrance hall full with servants, each of whom seemed determined to listen in at the library door. Bates was there with Anna, accompanied by Baxter who looked a nervous wreck with cold sweat dripping down her temple no doubt from fear. Mrs. Hughes was with them all, attempting to gain some order though she kept slipping. When she turned and saw Thomas she was flabbergasted, gaping in astonishment at the state of Thomas- dripping and covered in mud and leaves, close to ruining the carpet under foot. Baxter looked around, saw him, and promptly dashed across the entrance hall to take him in her arms. 

He was going to ruin her dress if she didn’t watch out. 

“Thomas!” Baxter ran her hands over his face; when she pulled them back Thomas saw her fingertips were covered in black soot, “Did you get her?” 

Thomas shook his head, bitter. Baxter fretted even more, rubbing her fingertips together in worry. Over her shoulder Thomas saw Bates do a double take at the site of him- he looked downright disturbed. 

“You look horrible!” Baxter worried, running her hands over his ruined livery dripping with scum and river water, “Did you fall?” 

But this was irrelevant. He had a ring in his pocket he needed to give back. 

He stepped past Baxter, running a hand down her arm as he went so that as their fingers interlocked. He pulled away, walking across the entrance hall towards the library door which was slightly ajar. As he passed Anna, Mrs. Hughes attempted to stop him. 

“Thomas- best not go in just now-“ Mrs. Hughes urged. 

Thomas pulled out of her grip, grabbing the library door handle. Bates took him by the elbow- 

“Don’t touch me!” Thomas barked, far too loudly for indoor tastes. Bates did not jump, but his eyes widened slightly as he slowly let his hand slip from Thomas’ dripping elbow. 

Thomas didn’t know why, but the fact that Bates had thought to hold him back physically disturbed him- disgusted him. 

“Do not ever touch me.” Thomas repeated, though Bates was hardly touching him now. Thomas could not begin to verbalize how disturbed it made him feel. To be touched by Bates physically for the first time in what was surely ten years- the last time Bates had touched him he’d slammed him into a wall. 

Thomas took the library doorknob in hand for a second time, and pushed without further interruption. 

“Thomas-“ Mrs. Hughes prostrated weakly, “You look a wreck, you mustn’t let the family see-“ 

Thomas did not care. 

He entered the library to find it crammed with people. There, clustered around their fine couches, were the Grantham family being tended to by Mr. Carson who looked absolutely scandalized when he saw Thomas dripping in the doorway. The police were there as well, all eight of them, and were questioning both Lady Grantham and (for whatever reason) Tom Branson. Both of them looked mildly alarmed at Thomas’ state, so much so that all conversation dwindled to a dead halt as every present member of the family turned to look. The Dowager was even among them, rattled in a dress of light purple. She glared at him, her eye twitching feverishly at the sight of his state. 

“Barrow!” Lord Grantham was the one to acknowledge him, “Did you find her?” 

Thomas bowed his head, fishing in his pocket for the Lady Grantham’s ring. As he pulled it out, he walked over with a soft , “M’lord”. Carson made to intercept him, ready to wring his neck, but Lady Grantham got to him first with brown eyes lighting up- it was incredible how truly distressed she looked. 

“Oh my goodness-!” Lady Grantham gasped at the sight of the ring in Thomas’ outstretched palm, “Where did you find this?” 

She rose from the couch where she’d sat being comforted by Lady Mary and Branson. Crossing the way, she took the ring from Thomas, holding it up to the light so that its turquoise stones glittered in the growing firelight. 

“There is a shed in the woods.” Thomas mumbled, unsure of how to best explain all he’d seen and down, “Past the river… I found it on the floor, M’lady.” 

“Thank you, Thomas.” Lady Grantham gushed, and though the ring was still filthy from misuse Lady Grantham slipped it upon her wrinkled finger with a watery smile. Thomas was shocked to see actual tears in the corners of her eyes. “This ring belonged to my great grandmother. It’s more precious to me than any sapphire.” 

“Good man!” Lord Grantham was chuffed, no longer displeased with Thomas’ state. He gazed at Thomas with the same weird displace pride that he’d once used when Thomas scored high at cricket or supposedly made to find Isis in the woods. Isis was long gone now, her replacement Tiaa chewing on a rubber toy in her basket before the fireplace. 

_There is no way in hell I’m locking you up in a shed_ , Thomas thought as he stared at the animated puppy, _You’d get out in five seconds_. 

“Could you show us this shed, Mr….?” A policeman spoke up, notepad in hand. It took Thomas a second to realize he was actually speaking to Sergeant Willas, the same man who had so hounded the Bates. 

“Barrow.” Said Carson, Lord Grantham, and Thomas at the same time. Thomas blinked, taken aback. 

“Mr. Barrow.” Sergeant Willas offered apologetically. 

“Yes.” Thomas agreed; it shouldn’t be too hard to find the shed again after all. His livery was already ruined, what harm would it do? 

“Very good.” Sergeant Willas agreed, scribbling the detail down in his notepad. 

“This is quite a haul to make off with.” A policeman to Sergeant Willas’ right said. Sergeant Willas did not make reply too busy writing. Lord Grantham gently jerked his head, eyes drifting to the library door. Thomas knew he’d overstayed his welcome, looking akin to a swamp monster and no doubt dripping all over the carpet. 

“M’lord.” Thomas bowed his head. He turned to go, but unfortunately for him was followed out by an irate Mr. Carson who looked ready to make good on his earlier threat of horse whipping Thomas for merely existing. They both exited the library together, entering back into the waiting throng of Mrs. Hughes, Baxter, Bates, and Anna. Mr. Carson shut the door, steaming, and before Thomas knew what was happening he’d been snagged by the elbow again to be drug back out into the entrance hall. Thomas fought the entire time, Carson’s grip bruising his soaking skin- 

He jerked hard, surprising both Carson and himself in his strength. 

“Stop-“ Thomas struggled, “Stop it!” He shouted it practically at the top of his lungs, finally jerking free of Carson’s grip to stumble several steps back. He nearly mowed over Baxter who’d been following them towards the green baize door of the servant’s stairwell. Carson looked scandalized, speaking at the same time as Thomas. 

“Lower your voice-!” 

“Don’t ever touch me!” Thomas yelped, talking right over Carson, “You never touched me before, you will not touch me now! You are not allowed to touch me!” He spat in a rush, surprising even himself in his venom. 

Carson stared, taken aback. 

“I beg your pardon?” Carson sneered, “I’ll do with you as I please to uphold the honor of the family and keep the carpet clean!” he added with a haughty snap. 

Once again, Thomas talked over the end of Carson’s sentence, “No!” 

It empowered him, gave him a moment of peace amid the rolling marbles. If he said ‘no’ he was still in control. So he said it several times, “No, no, no!” he spat at Mr. Carson’s face which was slowly turning the color of a beet. 

“You are wandering dangerously close to the window!” Carson warned him in a growling voice, “I suggest you remember yourself even in your filthy state-“ 

Thomas did not know if Carson was talking about his physical filth, or the filth he perceived on his soul. It did not matter. 

“Mr. Carson-“ Mrs. Hughes interjected, coming up behind Thomas to take his other side. Thomas had not realized it, desperate and on the verge of having a mental collapse, but Baxter was at his elbow… touching him. 

He could not find it in him to tell her no. To tell her to stop. He noticed Bates watching her fingers warily, as if wondering how long it would take for Thomas to yell at her too. But Thomas could never yell at Baxter, not when she’d held and sung him to sleep- not when she’d fed him with a spoon and held him as he vomited. In a way, though he knew it was wrong, he was beginning to look at Baxter as a cross between an older sister and a mother. 

But Thomas’ older sister Margret had never liked him much… and his mother had forgotten him in her prayers before he’d even grow into his trousers. So she was unlike either of them in the end. 

Carson was coming back to himself, running a hand through his thinning gray hair. The color of his complexion was returning to normal, though he was still scowling heavily. 

“What happened to you?” Carson demanded, gesturing to his ruined livery with a jerk of the hand. “You frightened the children.” 

Thomas could not find it in him to make reply. Instead he looked down at his hands which were covered in mud. He rubbed his fingers together, noting that his leather glove was surely ruined. His wrist cuffs were beginning to chafe. 

“Answer me!” Carson snapped, “Answer me or by god I will horsewhip you!” 

“Mr. Carson.” Mrs. Hughes beseeched him again. “He’s had a trying day-“ 

“We’ve all had a trying day.” Carson interjected, steam rolling over his wife’s plea for peace, “I will not allow him to continue making excuses for insubordination. The family deserves better… both families.” 

And Thomas knew the other family referred to the downstair’s family. The family he’d never be a part of. The family that hated him the most. That loathed him. 

Exhausted, feeling like he might break down and start screaming upon the carpet at any moment should he stay, Thomas stumbled from the green baize door. He passed right by Mr. Carson who was beginning to fume again, slipping from Baxter’s itching fingertips. 

He made it to the door without interjection, though when he pulled it open-

“I warn you!” Carson snapped, “I’d throw you out on your backside if I didn’t think I’d be responsible for your sorry death- you’d be in a ditch already if it weren’t for my kindness-!” 

And Thomas knew it to be true. He allowed the green baize door to shut behind his retreating back. When it closed, his expression crumpled. 

He returned upstairs, shedding his livery to take a sponge bath. He still could not stand to look at the bath tub and so (as he’d done for four weeks now) bathed instead with a sponge by the sink in the men’s lavatory. Inch by inch, his skin was wiped clean of mud. His hair was the hardest part, forcing him to bend halfway over in order to get all the filth out. As he rose again, he stared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. His expression was grim, haunted, barren of hope. He looked a million miles away from the smug sly young man that had once prowled the downstair’s corridors like a hungry panther. 

He reached, touching his reflection. Somehow he thought his hand would be able to sink right through the looking glass so that he’d be able to touch his corpse image… and sooth himself. Stroke his cheek as he so longed for someone to do. 

But all he felt was cold hard glass beneath his fingers, and his hand slid from the mirror to plop back down in the sink. 

Thomas sat in his room for a solid two hours, taking his time as he stitched up the tears in his dirtied livery pants and vest. As he went, he washed, doing a maid’s job in the men’s lavatory sink to wring out his clothes and place them over a clothe’s horse. They desperately needed scrubbing soaps- water was too soft on the stains. Knowing that he would have to go downstairs, in order to fetch it, Thomas resigned himself to more verbal abuse as he redressed in another set of black trousers and shirt sleeves. He had a spare footman’s vest and put it on, knowing he’d have to be careful not to get any stains on it until his other one dried. Re-combing his hair, Thomas tied up his shoe laces and rose from his desk chair to head back downstairs. Even from the second landing he could hear wild animated chatter from the servant’s hall, and as he reached the bottom the arguing was almost numbing to listen to. He headed for the linen pantry and rustled through it as he listened to the hubbub drifting in from the servant’s hall. 

“I can’t believe she did such a disgraceful thing!” Anna was saying in a scathing tone. 

“His Lordship is furious.” Bates added, “Those sapphires were part of the Countess set. They’re worth a small fortune.” 

Thomas found some spare soap chips hiding in a dusty box near the back of the ointment’s cupboard and pulled it free to dust it off. He took a few, sticking them in his pocket.. It shouldn’t take much to care for his trousers and vest. He’d need bleach for his shirt sleeves unfortunately. Maybe it would be better just to let the maids have at it. He sighed, exhausted, and rubbed his eyebrows. He noticed a faint rose scent clinging to his fingertips, and curiously withdrew the soap chips from his pocket to bring them to his nose. He sniffed, admiring their floral scent- 

“Thomas-!” 

Thomas nearly jumped out of his skin as pale hands suddenly shot out of the corner of his vision to grab at his hands and pull them away from his nose. He looked around, disturbed, to see Baxter absolutely frightened. 

He huffed, dropping his arms in her grip. Baxter seemed to realize he hadn’t been about to eat the soap; her expression grew reproachful. 

“I’m sorry.” She murmured, letting go of Thomas’ hands. “I only thought-“ 

“I know what you thought.” Thomas grumbled, putting the soap box back in the ointment cabinet. He shut the door, resolved to let the maids have at his ruined uniform. He was too tired to handle it tonight. Baxter tried for a tiny smile but failed, looking miserable as she bowed her head. 

“We’re having tea.” Baxter said, “Why not join us?” 

“Because they hate me.” Thomas supplied, the honest to god truth. Baxter did not deign his acerbic comment worthy of reply, instead taking his hand to pull him from the linen pantry back into the hallway. The pair of them made their way into the servant’s hall, though as they reached the threshold they let go of each other’s hands. Thomas wasn’t surprised to find the room packed save for Andy who was of course upstairs serving dinner with Mr. Carson. Thomas himself had missed the adventure, hiding in his room. As everyone turned to regard him, Thomas could not help but notice the disgust on some of the maid’s faces. How Daisy looked very irritable and did not pour him a cup of tea. Bates said nothing, sipping calmly on his own. 

Baxter retook her seat, looking around to see if Thomas would do the same. He remained standing in the doorway as Daisy continue to pour cups of tea from a steaming kettle. He searched each shadow of the servant’s hall for a sight of Edward… but he was alone yet again. 

“Taking the night off, Thomas?” Bates sneered from his seat, “Or did you forget you’re first footman now?” 

“He had a trying afternoon.” Baxter offered, “Mr. Carson didn’t want him serving if he looked a wreck-“ 

“He looks cleaned up well enough to me.” Bates said, giving Thomas a scathing look from his seat, “He probably didn’t want to do the extra w-“ 

“Her ladyship was so relieved you found that ring, Mr. Barrow.” Baxter spoke over Mr. Bates so that he glared at her dully though he did not make to finish his bitter remark, “Thank you for acting so bravely and going after her.” 

Before anyone could reject this notion that Thomas was ‘brave’, the sound of footsteps upon the stone floor flagged the arrival of Joseph Moseley. Dressed in a day suit and looking quite happy, he raised his hand merrily at the warm welcome he received as all looked around with wide smiles. All except Thomas. 

“Mr. Moseley!” Daisy beamed, delighted, “I’ll fetch you a cup of tea!” 

“Is it true?” Moseley asked as Bates drew out a chair for him at the table. He sat down with silent thanks, “I just came up from the pub in the village; it’s the talk of the town.” 

“I’m afraid it is.” Bates said wearily, taking the cup of tea Daisy poured for Moseley and offering it to him. Once again he bobbed his head in silent thanks. He offered Baxter a chummy smile that Baxter replied to in kind. 

“How much did she make off with?” Moseley asked, slightly nervous as he addressed Baxter for the first time. 

Baxter opened and closed her mouth several times; nothing came out. 

“A sapphire necklace.” Anna spoke up where Baxter failed so that Moseley swiveled around in his seat to address Anna instead. “And matching earrings… the witch.” Anna added nastily.

“You worked so fast, Thomas.” Baxter spoke up, her voice trembling. Thomas knew why she was so rattled; the situation with the nanny mirrored her own with Coyle though no one in the servant’s hall knew of it besides Mr. Moseley who remained resolutely silent. He kept his eyes on Baxter, every twitch of her pale face mirrored in his own. Thomas wasn’t one to think often about Mr. Moseley’s love life but he imagined that, should Moseley be in love, it would be with Ms. Baxter. “How did you know what to do?” 

Thomas shrugged, but from across the table an answer came from Daisy’s mouth instead. 

“Because he helped her steal it.” Daisy snapped. 

The servant’s hall fell into a tense silence as everyone looked around to glance first at Daisy and then at Thomas. 

Thomas kept his eyes trained on the shadows in the corners of the room, waiting for Edward to appear and save him. 

“Daisy…” Baxter didn’t know what to say. 

“I don’t buy it.” Daisy warned, glaring at Thomas from across the kitchen table. Baxter was stunned into momentary silence, but Daisy just carried right on, “In the past you’ve stolen before, why not now?”

No one made to challenge her. 

“How did you know where to find the ring in the first place, in a shed past a river where no one’s even been before? Who’s to say you didn’t steal it yourself, then make up a story about a shed to-“ 

Thomas turned and left the servant’s hall. He walked down the long hallway to the back door, mindless to voices that were growing re animated in their discussion from the servant’s hall. Thomas was almost certain he heard Bates congratulating Daisy on being ‘brave’. 

He opened the door to the back step, closing it quickly so that he was suddenly plunged into the darkness of the outside. 

It was cold despite it being a summer’s night. Above him, the stars seemed pale and listless; a wind blew at his ankles, scattering old newspapers that had fallen from dustbins. 

Thomas took one breath, then another, finding it increasingly hard to keep control of his facial expressions; why now was he thinking of all those years ago when he’d danced with Daisy in the servant’s hall? 

He sunk against a stone pillar where he’d often smoked, and slid gently down till his bottom rested against the ground. He looked up at the stars again, now able to rest his head against the marble so that his neck didn’t strain. 

He wondered where Edward was; if Edward could see him-   
He closed his eyes, breathing deeply. He imagined in that moment that he’d never left the darkness and the bathtub. That he was sitting once more in the gloom between worlds. 

It was difficult to know how long he’d sat there, but when the back door opened again he had a feeling he knew who it was. 

“It’s funny to see it from this side.” Baxter’s voice quavered. 

Thomas cracked open an eye, twisting his head painfully to the right to see Baxter sitting slumped at the work table. The moonlight filtering down illuminated her but just barely, touching on the corners of her black dress and the swell of her breasts beneath the stiff fabric. 

“Don’t compare.” Thomas murmured, twisting his head back to keep from getting a crick in his neck, “You did it for love. She did it for…” Up the workers, “Money, I suppose. The notoriety. We don’t know her story yet.” 

“that’s the longest sentence you’ve spoken in three weeks.” Baxter said. It seemed she was trying to joke, but it was a weak attempt and it failed in her mouth making her sound more miserable than before. Thomas twisted his neck back around again, seeing her wring her trembling hands in her lap. It was like she was trying to twist off her own fingers. 

“I was inspired.” Thomas said softly. 

“I imagine…” Baxter swallowed, shaking her head. Thomas could not see her face, “I imagine if they knew what I was they’d hate me just as much-“ 

Her voice broke. 

“But you don’t hate me, do you Thomas.” Baxter blubbered, tears evident; they gleamed on her cheeks, illuminated in the starlight. 

Baxter had known to find him in the bathtub when all others hadn’t given him a second thought. Baxter had held him in his waking grief, fed him with a soup spoon, and cleaned up his sick upon the floor. Baxter had talked him down out of a second attempt and whispered in his ear all through the night that she loved him. That she would not let him be alone. 

Who else had done such wonderful things for Thomas? 

Thomas rose up from the pillar, tiny pebbles scraping beneath his boots as he walked across the flagstone to reach out and take Baxter’s trembling shoulder in hand. 

“No.” Thomas assured her, stroking the quivering muscles as best he could. “No I don’t hate you… Phyllis.” 

He didn’t know why it was so necessary to say her first name. Only that he needed to. Only that is somehow conveyed something he couldn’t otherwise say for lack of knowing how. 

Overwhelmed, Baxter twisted in her seat and took him in her arms. Due to their difference in heights, she ended up hugging him around the waist, burying her face in his vest. Though she made no sound, Thomas knew that she was weeping. It somehow made him angrier than he could express, and he placed his hands gently upon her shoulders and back. He even cupped her neck, the feathers of her hair like small wisps between his fingers. 

“I’m sorry-“ Baxter whispered harshly into his vest. “I’m so afraid of public ridicule- I can’t- I can’t stand up for you.” 

“If that’s what you’re crying over you needn’t bother.” Thomas warned her gently. “Spare me your grief.” 

Baxter’s shoulders slowly stopped trembling. She breathed harshly into his vest, somehow trying to gain a scent from the fabric as if Thomas had a unique aroma all his own. He doubted it was pleasant if he did. 

The backdoor opened again, and Thomas glanced up to see Moseley stumble over the threshold with a look of great concern upon his face. When he saw Baxter crying into Thomas’ stomach, his pale face drained of what little blood it possessed. 

“Ms. Baxter!” Moseley’s voice was weak with surprise. Baxter jerked away from Thomas’ stomach, wiping her eyes desperately with her hands.Thomas kept his hands upon her shoulders, lending her what little strength he possessed in her time of need. Ever the gallant gentleman, Moseley fished a handkerchief from his back pocket and offered it to Baxter who took it and wiped at her face miserably. 

“Pardon me, Mr. Moseley.” Baxter said, her voice thick as if she was suffering from a head cold. “I’m being silly.” 

“I should hardly think you silly.” Moseley said softly. 

“Thomas did not steal those jewels.” Baxter said, with such strength of conviction in her voice that even Moseley seemed surprised. He blinked, bashful, and offered her a somber smile. 

“I think Daisy’s just speaking out of anger.” He murmured. 

“I don’t care.” Baxter whispered, sounding (for the first time) well and truly angry. She glared up at Moseley for a brief second, only to look away embarrassed. She wiped at her face again with his handkerchief to slowly hand it back to him. He shook his head, allowing her to keep it. 

“Keep it.” Moseley offered, sounding quite nervous, “Let it bring you luck.” 

“How would a handkerchief bring her luck?” Thomas muttered, quite confused by the notion. Moseley glared at him dully. Thomas glared back. 

Baxter reached up, touching Thomas’ hands upon her shoulders. She squeezed them in sympathetic support. 

“Thomas is a bit too practical for our notions,” Baxter whispered. 

“Maybe I’m jealous.” Thomas offered, praying that Moseley would think he was joking. 

Moseley said nothing, leaning a little against the work bench to fold his arms over his thin chest. Thomas wondered how much he weighed… he was like a thin ratty weed. 

“Would you like to come back inside?” Mr. Moseley offered to Baxter. 

“Only if Thomas comes too.” Baxter said. Moseley blanched, not have expected this answer. Glancing at Thomas, he tried to keep his voice neutral of all hostility as he asked, “Well Mr. Barrow?” 

Thomas rubbed Baxter’s shoulders, letting his hands finally slip from her frame. He imagined her quite protected now that her gallant Moseley was here. She had no need for him anymore. 

“..Think I’ll turn in early.” Thomas murmured, thinking of the upstairs full of scissors and- 

“You will not.” Baxter warned. “You’ll sit through dinner and you’ll eat this time.” 

“Who says Daisy won’t put soap shavings in my soup like last time?” Thomas offered. 

“She only did that because Mrs. Patmore bade her too.” Moseley warned, “There are worse crimes than loyalty.” 

“Are there?” Thomas asked, thinking of all the pain he’d endured in his life just because people were loyal to Bates or Carson. Moseley seemed to realize that while his words were good his implication in Thomas’ case was less than well received. He pursed his lips looking away. 

“Well.” Moseley huffed, “You know what I mean.” 

“I’m sure I don’t.” Thomas said, negating all further discussion. 

Baxter rose up from the bench, and Thomas stepped back to allow her room. She regarded him in the moonlight, seeing something that Moseley did not (could not), and in a move of shocking forwardness she reached out to gently touch his cheek with her hand. Thomas did not move beneath her fingertips, appearing to her in that moment like a marble statue. Still she stroked his pale skin. 

“How lucky I am.” Baxter mused. “To have two men to protect me.” 

“You hardly need me.” Thomas said, “You have your gallant Mr. Moseley.” 

Moseley made an angry noise, but kept his jaw clenched tight. Baxter did not take offense, smiling sweetly as she continued to touch his cheek. 

“But I also have my brave Thomas.” Baxter added. “And I love him just as much.” she added thickly. Thomas saw a sparkle of emotion in her eye, and shook his head. 

“Then you’re a fool.” He said softly. Baxter let her hand slip form his face, touching upon his angular shoulders instead. 

“You’re the bravest one of us all.” Baxter said, with just a touch of pride in his voice, “And it shows even if you don’t think it.” 

“Really.” Thomas mused, darkly. “Why don’t you ask Mr. Moseley if he shares your view.” 

Moseley rolled his eyes looking away. Baxter just gave him a small smile. 

“He doesn’t have to.” She said simply, “I love you enough to compensate for all the rest.” 

Moseley looked back around, amazed. He blinked, bashful, then looked back at the door to the servant’s hall wondering silently if they should all go inside again. Baxter finally let her hand slip from his shoulder and made to join Mr. Moseley on the other side of the table. 

“Coming, Mr. Barrow?” Moseley said, in a voice that seemed to pray Thomas said ‘no’. 

“No.” Thomas mused, sitting down on the bench to take Baxter’s place. 

Moseley said nothing more, heading to the stoop and opening the door for Baxter. Thomas kept his back resolutely to Baxter, refusing to look at her even as she watched him somberly from the stoop and waited for a full silent minute for Thomas to join her. Thomas stared up at the stars and sky instead, refusing to move. 

He heard the backdoor close, and looked around to see that both Baxter and Moseley were gone. Sighing, he leaned back against the table only to wince at the wood. In an effort to relieve the tension, Thomas stood up and sat instead upon the table itself, swinging his legs over and leaning against the wood so that he was soon flat on his back as if asleep and staring straight up at the night sky unimpeded in view. The stars gleamed down at him, as beautiful as any painting in a museum. 

He reached out to touch them, for some reason or another hearing Baxter’s voice in his head. How she’d sang to him in his sleep not even a day after he’d attempted suicide the first time. 

_“..come Josephine in my flying machine…”_ Thomas whispered, _“And it’s up she goes… up she goes.”_ His fingers swam in stars, he made to part them, scraping them with his nails, _“Balance yourself like a bird on a beam, in the air she goes… there she goes…_ ” 

_“Up, up, a little bit higher.”_ He spread his fingers wide, _“Oh my the moon is on fire…”_

It was exhausting to hold his hand up. He dropped it back to the table with a thunk. The moon was not on fire, and the song was foolish for insisting it could even achieve such a feat. Still, Thomas stared up at the stars and wondered if Edward was watching him. If Edward was somewhere up there swimming through a soup full of dark and light, dancing in the heavily beams of a thousand burning plants. Thomas imagined himself drifting with Edward, imagined them watching galaxies spin like pinwheels 

He lay there complacent and quiet, eyes closing once more so that despite having a heavenly view above him he instead found peace from the image within. The image of loving Edward in the sky, like they even stood a chance, swimming through the stars, twisting and turning and kissing Edward’s lips- 

“Thomas-“ 

Thomas jerked, nearly falling off the table entirely. He spluttered, eyes popping open to see Mrs. Hughes above him. She stared down at him with a tender if understanding smile. 

“It’s time for supper.” Mrs. Hughes said. “Your presence is required at the table.” 

“Is it?” Thomas wondered. “I should have imagine food consumable without my presence-“ 

“Thomas, get off the table.” Mrs. Hughes ordered, “You are hardly the Lady of Shalott upon her deathbed.” 

“As far as you know. _Under tower and balcony, by garden wall and gallery, a pale, pale corpse she floated by, Deadcold, between the houses high_ -” Thomas grumbled. He closed his eyes again. 

“Get off the table.” 

“No.” 

A firm hand upon his chin made his eyes pop open again. Mrs. Hughes raised an eyebrow in warning. Thomas’ narrowed his own eyes, following the tug upon his chin to swing his legs over the edge of the table. 

“Fine.” He muttered bitterly, sitting up and dusting his trousers off. Mrs. Hughes was satisfied opening the door to the back stoop to let Thomas into the dark warmth of the inner servant’s hall. She closed the door after them both, locking it for good measure and giving him another terse smile. 

“I’m amazed you could pull that poem out of your memory.” Mrs. Hughes said as they walked. “I should wonder what else is in your head.” 

“Evil things.” Thomas warned her, wishing he was joking in that moment. She sensed the bitterness in his voice and paused as they reached the mouth to the stairwell, kitchen hallway, and servant’s hall in junction. She gave him a small smile. 

“Only if you want them there.” Mrs. Hughes reminded him. 

“Don’t insult me, Mrs. Hughes.” Thomas asked, “If I had the power to banish them they’d already be gone.” 

Mrs. Hughes nodded, somehow agreeing even in her eternal optimism. She put a hand upon the small of his back, urging him into the servant’s hall. Chattering voices and gay laughter dwindled into ugly painful silence at his re appearance. Moseley was sitting in Thomas’ seat next to Baxter, glancing around at him with a bashful expression. Baxter herself was still quite somber though at least back at her seat. Bates and Anna kept their eyes forward, saying nothing. Across the table sat Andy, dinner done and dusted; he did not meet Thomas’ eyes and instead looked down at his bare plate. Mrs. Hughes took her place next to Mr. Carson, leaving Thomas to stare at the chairs wondering which one he should take. 

There were none vacant. No one made to pull up a seat. 

He turned, making to leave for the stairwell, but was stopped in his tracks by the voice of Mrs. Hughes. 

“Thomas, tonight Mrs. Patmore wants you to eat in the kitchen.” Mrs. Hughes explained. “Your chair is in there.” 

Thomas blinked, thrown, and looked warily back around at Mrs. Hughes. She gave him a stern if kind smile to silently assure him he had heard right. Thomas definitely heard snickering in the servant’s hall, no doubt from the others who thought this his just deserts. To be knocked from sitting next to Carson to sitting in the kitchen with the scullery maid and Mrs. Patmore. 

He headed for the stairwell, thinking he could simply- 

“The Kitchen, Thomas.” Mrs. Hughes warned, loudly. Thomas winced, foot stopping on the first step. He gripped the railing irritably, stepping back down and turning instead for the kitchen hallway. When he poked his head into the kitchen he saw Mrs. Patmore sitting expectantly at a fold out table with Daisy and the lone scullery maid Gertie who looked quite petrified at having to share a table with the notorious Thomas Barrow. Daisy had her lips into a thin white line and was resolutely silent while Mrs. Patmore doled out lamb, bubble and squeak, and kedgeree. She spotted him in the doorway and urged him over with a large wave of her hammish hand. 

“Come on then.” Mrs. Patmore urged, “Sit down before the lamb goes cold.” 

“I’m just going to go to b-“ Thoms pointed at the cieling. Mrs. Patmore glared at him with such ferocity that it stopped him cold. 

He blinked, chewing upon his inner cheek as Mrs. Patmore pointed at a vacant chair between her and Daisy. It seemed he had absolutely no choice. 

Thomas trudged across the kitchen, scooting around Daisy who bristled as he past, and sat down slowly upon his chair. Mrs. Patmore had already loaded his plate and was just finishing up with Gertie who looked quite famished. She tucked in at once, shoveling bubble and squeak as fast as she could into her mouth. Daisy picked at her kedgeree silently while Mrs. Patmore began to cut into her lamb. Thomas slowly reached from his teacup and took a timid sip. 

Mrs. Patmore watched him as she took a bite of lamb, waiting for him to eat as well. Thomas took another sip of tea, staring resolutely at the stairwell just visible through the far kitchen door. The tension at the table was incredible. 

“Oh for god’s sake.” Mrs. Patmore spat, “He didn’t steal the sapphires, Daisy. It would be impossible.” 

“I only-“ Daisy started to speak, but Mrs. Patmore steam rolled right over her, flattening any further argument. 

“Ms. Baxter cleaned those sapphires herself this morning and locked them up in Lady Grantham’s room. You heard what Mrs. Hughes said-!” Mrs. Patmore warned, waving her knife dangerously close to Thomas’ nose. He had to lean back lest she hack at his skin. “Thomas was downstairs all day ferrying around boxes of linens. Unless he’s somehow developed the ability to be in two places at once, it would be impossible for him to have stolen those sapphires. Which you ought to know!” Mrs. Patmore huffed, stabbing at her lamb with renewed vigor. Across the table Gertie sat petrified, unable to eat lest the table get flipped between the two arguing women. Thomas gave her a bitter smile from across the way and took another sip of tea. 

Daisy stabbed moodily at her own lamb, taking another bite. 

“I just don’t think the nanny could have done it.” Daisy said. “And how did he knew where that shack in the woods was-“ 

“Because I bloody well ran after her!” Thomas snapped, slamming his teacup down onto the table. Tea sloshed over the sides, burning his fingers and soaking a bit of the table, but he didn’t care. He glared ferociously at Daisy, making her quake under his stare. “I bloody well took chase after her and found the shack. I lost her at the river, and nearly broke me neck when I fell in the shack-“ 

“Then how did you find the-“ 

“Because I bloody nearly swallowed it when I hit the bloody floor!” Thomas snarled. “Which if you’d stopped thinking me the devil for five seconds you might have realized yourself-“ 

“Stop cursing!” Daisy cut him off, clearly insulted by his foul language, “I had every right to imagine you a thief after you went and stole all that wine-“ 

Thomas jerked up from the table, nearly knocking his teacup over entirely. Mrs. Patmore grabbed him hard by the forearm and jerked him right back down into his seat before he could storm upstairs. He tried to stand up again but it was like fighting with Attila the Hun. 

“If you two don’t stop and eat, I’ll string both your guts up for garters-!” But Thomas finally managed to break free of Mrs. Patmore’s hold. Furious, unable to think clearly, he stormed from the kitchen and headed for the stairwell. He ignored Mrs. Patmore’s shouts behind him, demanding he return to the table: 

“Thomas!” She cried out angrily, “Thomas Barrow you get back here this instant or see if I don’t come after you-!” 

He didn’t care. 

He scaled the stairs faster than Mrs. Patmore ever could, legs pumping like the iron weights of a train till he was on the attic floor and left to his own devices. Bitter and hateful with no one to vent to, Thomas turned into his room and practically kicked the door closed. Hateful at himself, burned by his circumstances, in dire pain without anyone to help him… Thomas lashed out. 

The first thing he lashed out at was the tidiness of his room. He grabbed the chair, flipping it- he threw his lampshade breaking it against the wall and knocked over his bed stand so that everything atop it when crashing across the floor. But even this was not enough, because all it did was ruin his environment and create more problems. It fixed nothing. It soothed nothing. 

Clutching at his hair, Thomas stormed back and forth. 

And then suddenly… a thought came to him. 

He reached out to his bureau, yanking open the top drawer to reveal the grooming kit he’d only just recently gotten back. His razor, his scissors, several combs each layered in age- he yanked out the scissors and opened them to hear their sharp snipping noise. He looked up at himself in the bureau mirror, regarded his haggard appearance, his oiled hair now in a mess against his forehead. 

Thomas strode determinedly across the room and grabbed his desk chair to jam it beneath the doorknob to make a poor man’s lock. He returned to the bureau and its mirror, glaring somberly at his reflection. He reached up, grabbing a chunk of his hair and separating it from the rest of his head by seizing it in a fist. 

Isn’t this what they did to mental patients? Shave off their hair? Wasn’t this what he ought to do for the sake of them all? 

Thomas brought the scissors up, making to cut the entire chunk right at the root of his- 

A soft knock upon the door jerked him out of his reverie. The sound of the chair creaking gave Thomas pause. He looked over his shoulder, noting the handle of his door was twitching. 

“Thomas?” the sound of Andy’s voice on the other side of the door annoyed him greatly. “Thomas are you in there-“ 

“Go away.” Thomas snapped, dropping both his clump of uncut hair and his scissors. Realizing the stupidity of his near actions, he chucked his scissors upon his bureau and set to making things right in the room. The lamp was fucked, but it wasn’t like Thomas needed the light. In fact he rather liked it dark… let it be dark in his room all the time. Let him live in the dark; he’d be better suited for it. 

The door knob rattled against as Thomas righted his old armchair and re-fixed the red quilt atop it. 

“Thomas, open the door-“ Andy urged, “Open the door or I’m getting Mr. C-“ 

“Get back to your meal, Andy!” Thomas snapped, still furious at the whole lot of them downstairs, “Go on and eat your food and be happy- just go on! All I want is one second where I am alone and allowed to breath- can I garner that from you Andy? Or do I have to toddle around like a child with an adult everywhere I go?!” 

“Thomas I’m worried-“ 

But Thomas had nothing more to say. He set his bedside table back up, fixing its drawers and shoving things back inside: a few books, a writing pen, a stone he’d found and admired for its deep green color and a leather journal he’d yet to write in at all. He kicked the lamp into the corner of his room, giving it up for lost, and sank down on the floor by his bed so that even if Andy managed to get the door he wouldn’t be able to see Thomas. 

“Thomas-“ the door knob continued to rattle. Thomas sat in silence waiting for Andy to go away. The door rattled a few more times and then… nothing. 

In the dark, Thomas drew his knees up to his chest and waited for whatever would come next. 

 

Despite Andy’s proclamations that Mr. Carson would be on his way, Thomas was left uninterrupted. For some odd reason, Moseley was staying the night in the abbey- Thomas didn’t much care save for the fact that he did hear Moseley’s voice drift down the hallway near eleven o’clock. Andy said his adieus, pausing at Thomas’ door to try the handle again. It was still locked. 

“Goodnight Thomas.” He heard Andy mumble from the other side of the wood. 

Still sitting in the dark, Thomas said absolutely nothing back.   
The marbles slowly rolled across his bedroom floor, bumping into shards from his broken lamp. 

When he heard the last door close, Thomas sat and pondered. 

And pondered.   
And pondered. 

He waited for Edward, for a sign, for anything, but found none forthcoming and wondered why. Then he deduced it was because he was in his bedroom, not the bathroom, and decided it was time to face the proverbial beast. 

To bite the bullet and swallow the pill. 

Thomas rose from the floor, back aching and buttocks twanging from sitting on the wood for such a long time. He shed his shoes and his vest, undoing his bowtie and casting it atop his barren desk. He shucked his suspenders to clip them from his trousers, shirking his shirtsleeves till he was in his undershirt and trousers just like before. 

Just like before. 

With unnerving similarity Thomas left his room and walked through silent halls to the men’s bathroom, slowly opening the door to reveal its porcelain tomb inside. 

His tomb. 

Entranced, drawn as if by a spell, Thomas shut the bathroom door behind him and walked once more to the tub. He ran his hands around its rim, feeling the smooth cold ceramic beneath his fingers like one might a piece of fine fur. It lured him almost like a nest, urging him to sleep inside, and so exhausted was Thomas that he clambered into the tub like one might into bed. It was long enough for him to rest his legs fully against the basin, his back and neck propped against the rim. Thomas took several slow, deep breathes, waiting for Edward to re appear… to lean in and kiss him just like before. 

But Edward did not show. 

It was late, and Thomas was exhausted. He was beginning to ache from sitting on his bedroom floor and now laying in the tub. He thought it only fitting that he should sleep here tonight, somehow finding the notion of laying in his own bed revolting. But the tub was cold, despite it being late summer, and Thomas found himself shivering as he drew his legs up to his chest. 

In that moment a spark of cleverness came to him; that he might use a bit of warm water from the tap to act like a blanket to him. Inspired Thomas slowly turned on the hot water tap, first avoiding a stream of icy cold water by hiding at the far end of the tub and then waiting for it to get hot. As soon as it was steaming it put the stopper in the drain, allowing the tub to fill part of the way. It was only a few inches, just enough to cover the top of his knees, and Thomas shut off the tap at once lest he alert the others with the sound of shifting pipes in the walls. Sighing in the steam, completely relaxed, Thomas closed his eyes again and this time waited for the water to grow cold. 

He felt almost certain that when it grew cold, Edward would appear again. Would hold him and love him and kiss his brow. 

After a while, Thomas fell asleep, resting against the tub with his legs fully outstretched. When he woke again the water was tepid and still, not ice cold but certainly on its way to being there. It was difficult to say what hour it was…. merely that it was early morning. 

Thomas lay there wondering up at the ceiling, somber…

And then he heard the latch click on the door.   
Like someone was coming in. 

At once, Thomas attempted to sit up and rise from the tub, knowing whoever was on the other side was either in the mood for a midnight bath or god knows what else. But it was pitch black in the bathroom, impossible to see without light of some sort, and for some god awful reason Thomas suddenly realized that he could not move. It was as if the water had frozen his limbs, stiffening his joints and rendering them useless to him. He could not recall a medical condition where water made one’s joints latch, but what if one existed and he simply hadn’t known? What if he’d paralyzed himself out of a desire to be kissed by a ghost and would now have to survive unable to move or speak for the rest of his life? 

A terrifying fear arose inside of Thomas, and he attempted to scream, to move, to do anything! But nothing would come out- nothing at all, and Thomas felt tears sting at the corners of his eyes in horror. 

There was something dark in the doorway.   
A figure. 

Tall, broad shouldered, hulking, it could only be one person even if Thomas could not clearly make out the face. Charles Carson had found him in this bathroom and was clearly furious, a murderous malicious intent oozing like a foul stench from his dark shadow as he slowly came across the room towards Thomas in the tub. Thomas could not see Carson’s face, could not make him out- but he knew for a damn fact who it was and desperately tried to scream again-! 

Thomas felt a stiff pressure upon his chest- with a sudden stab of new horror he realized that Mr. Carson was attempting to push him into the water. To ‘fix the problem’ once and for all if only by drowning Thomas in the tub. Thomas felt the water begin to rise up over his face, icy cold (when had it dropped in temperature so suddenly?) and heavy like cement. 

“No! No!!” Thomas desperately wanted to scream even as Carson’s shadow pushed him deeper beneath the water. His nostrils were submerged- “No Mr. Carson, don’t!!” 

But it was impossible. 

Thomas couldn’t breath, couldn’t move, couldn’t scream, and now struggled to grapple with the sickening realization that he was actually about to be murdered by the one man he’d hoped (with the naivety of a child) might look to his welfare in the end just as he’d looked to William’s, Alfred’s, and Andy’s. But William, Alfred, and Andy were innocent young men; Thomas was their predator. Thomas, in Carson’s eyes, had always been a nuisance to be shod of. Now it seemed he’d found the perfect solution- to simply kill Thomas himself-

 

“NOOOO!!!!” 

Jarred, springing forth like a toy from a loaded box, Thomas suddenly realized he could move again and thrashed wildly in the tub. Water was on his face, icy cold- submerging him- he couldn’t breath! Gasping, screaming at the top of his lungs, Thomas attempted to shove up with his hands only to slip and bang his elbow hard upon the side of the tub. He lost his balance, slipped, and his head cracked against the porcelain with a horrible sickening crunch. White hot stars exploded before his eyes, flooded his ears with a loud buzzing sound as if several bees were attempting to nest in his hair. But Thomas just kept screaming, thrashing wildly, desperate to get away from Carson and his murderous hands as fast as he could-! 

“PLEASE CARSON NO!!!” 

The light clicked on.   
There above him was Carson, murderous and vile.   
He had no eyes; only black holes where they had once been. 

“NO! DON’T! NO!” 

Thomas pinched his eyes shut to block out the sight of Carson. Suddenly there were hands on him, hands holding him, but Thomas was still blinded by stars in his eyes and bees in his ears- terrified he wrenched himself free of the hands and just kept screaming for help-! 

“NO!” Thomas screamed wildly, heart pounding in his ears- his whole skull suddenly felt like it was thick and heavy- as if his brain were made of lead- but he just kept screaming. 

_Scream!_ his mind urged, _Scream it’s the only way you’ll live_! 

“Thomas-!” Someone was holding him from behind, clutching at the back of his head which was stinging fiercely, “Thomas it’s alright, snap out of it-!” 

Another pair of hands were trying to grab his legs, trying to still them— Carson-! 

“NO PLEASE GOD NO!” Thomas howled, terrified, jerking his legs up to his chest to try and escape Carson’s clutches, “PLEASE CARSON DON’T!” 

“Thomas!” A woman bellowed in his ear, “Thomas snap out of it!” 

“NO!” Thomas kept his eyes pinched shut, terrified to open them. With each rattling, gasping breath he drew, he screamed on the exhale. 

Someone slapped him. Hard. 

Thomas was jarred, another wave of sparks flying in front of his eyes altogether different than before. For some reason it seemed to ground, him, pause him, and made him want to open his eyes despite the petrifying sight of Carson without eyes that surely awaited him. 

Slowly, drawing in great rattling gasping breathes, Thomas opened his eyes. 

He was absolutely surrounded. Mrs. Patmore, Baxter, Moseley, and Andy were all about him, tousle haired and in housecoats each with their hands on him in a different place. Baxter was holding the back of his head, a hand towel in her hands- the water beneath his was stained crimson and Thomas immediately jerked his wrists out of the water to observe his leather cuffs were soaked up untinged… he’d not slit his wrists. Moseley was at the foot of the tub, holding onto his knees to keep him from hitting himself in the nose. Mrs. Patmore was before him, grasping tightly as his cheeks with her hammish fingers, her grip strong and commanding. Andy hovered over her shoulder, a bloody towel in his hands, soaking wet and dripping blood back into the tub. Behind all of them stood Daisy in the doorway, pale and terrified in her dressing gown and night cap. She hid in the door, unsure of what to do, but no one around the tub seemed to have any answers either. 

Everyone was waiting with baited breath, unnerved. Moseley looked ready to jump into the tub with Thomas if it meant saving them all from scandal. Baxter just kept his head steady, her tea towel rapidly turning crimson- what was bleeding? Thomas couldn’t understand where he’d hurt himself- he only knew that he ached all over and… and… 

“C-C-C-“ He couldn’t speak, stuttering petrified, “C-C-Carson!” 

Mrs. Patmore kept his chin in her hands, gripping his tight. Her brown eyes were wide, her pudgy face bloodless in her horror. Her curly crimson hair fell in a braid over her shoulder, sagging between her enormous breasts which, unbound, were like a massive mound beneath her faded housecoat. 

“C-Carson!” Thomas repeated, his fear returning. He looked left and right, searching each corner of the bathroom for the butler. The light hid nothing from view; Carson, it seemed, had fled the room. 

“Carson tried to kill me!” Thomas hiccuped, sinking even further back into the top of the tub- or at least he tried to until Moseley kept his grip on Thomas’ legs. Mrs. Patmore said nothing, still trying to register what the hell was happening. 

“Carson- I saw him!” Thomas’ voice was rising. He tried to clamber out of the tub only to be stopped by both Moseley and Baxter. Even Andy seemed determined to keep him sitting, his hands outstretched though they still clutched that bloodied tea towel. “I saw him! I saw him!” Thomas screamed the words, “He was here! He was here, I saw him- he tried to kill me! He was going to drown me! He pushed me into the water-“ 

“No, no- Thomas-!” Mrs. Patmore’s loud voice overrode his hysterical own. Even as he babbled she tried for sense, “Thomas you were dreaming! You were dreaming, nothing more. Mr. Carson is miles away in his cottage, asleep with Mrs. Hughes. He didn't try to kill you-“ 

“No I saw him!” Thomas beseeched her, “I saw him, you have to believe me-“ but it was the fact that she wouldn’t believe him- that none of them would believe him about anything ever again that upset him more than Carson or his lack of eyes. 

Heartbroken, Thomas burst into tears. 

Baxter held him from behind, one hand slipping about his chest while the other kept pressure on the back of his head. Mrs. Patmore let go of his cheek with one hand to press her palm against his forehead as if checking for fever. For some odd reason Thomas could not understand, Moseley acted completely out of character by gently rubbing the skin of Thomas’ ankle with his thumb… and the small action however meagre prompted Thomas to just keep howling. 

“Please believe me-“ Thomas sobbed, “I saw him! He was here! He tried to kill me! I know it was him! He pushed me under and held me down- he wants me to die-“ 

“No,” Mrs. Patmore urged, her tone firm and gentle, “Mr. Carson does not want you to die-“ 

“You all want me to die!” Thomas howled, aggrieved. He screamed out loud when no one made to correct him, his voice muffled as Mrs. Patmore put her fingers gently over his lips and Baxter tightened her arm around his chest.

“It’s alright.” Baxter whispered rapidly in his ear, “It’s alright Thomas, I know you’re frightened but it’s alright. I’m here now. I’m here.” 

Thomas turned hard, frightened like a child. He jerked free of Mrs. Patmore’s hands, squirming in Baxter’s embrace to hide himself in her house coat just as he’d done to his vest earlier that night. Baxter held him as a mother might, cradling the back of his head with her tea towel while she rubbed his shoulders and his back.

“Is it any wonder?” She demanded of the others who remained resolutely silent, “After what he’s been through? Is it any wonder that he can’t sleep? I don’t suppose anyone would think to call for a doctor or help him? And you wonder why he keeps his distance?” 

“We need to call a doctor for that head wound.” Moseley spoke up in agreement, sounding quite stern for some reason. Thomas tried to block them all out, merely hiding in Baxter’s lilac housecoat. The embroidery was scratchy upon his face. “It could have been accidental but it could have been self inflicted-“ 

“Daisy, get away from the door!” Mrs. Patmore barked, making Thomas jump, “Get back to bed!” 

“Should I call for a doctor?” Daisy spoke up, timid and frightened. 

“You should do as I say and get back to bed!” Mrs. Patmore sounded more angrier than before. Daisy made no reply, a shuffling of feet bidding her adieu. 

“I’ll ring for Dr. Clarkson.” Andy insisted, abandoning the bathtub with heavy footfalls till silence took over the room once again. 

Before, thoughts of a mental ward and padded cells had terrified Thomas. Now they seemed to be some type of sanctuary- anything, he prayed, to keep a murderous Carson at bay. 

“Believe me.” He whimpered pathetically into Baxter’s housecoat. 

“I believe you…” She murmured softly, “I know you saw him, but I don’t think he was here. I think you dreamed him, but I believe you saw him.” She kept rubbing his back, stroking him lovingly. 

“He was so real-!” Thomas choked out, howling his grief, “But- but- but he didn’t have eyes! It was just black holes-!” And the admission made him burst into a new wave of tears. The memory seemed to have burned into his skull, branding him for life in his terror. 

“It was just a dream, Thomas. Nothing more.” Moseley still had that stern tone in his voice. Like Thomas was one of his naughty school children, and not a grown man wrapped up in a terror. 

“He- he tried-“ But Thomas could say no more. He was exhausted, his head ached like mad, and his heart was pounding in his ears. So scared was he that as he lapsed into silence he began to shake like a little lamb without fleece. 

“He’ll freeze to death like this.” Mrs. Patmore urged, reaching forward to unplug the stopper of the tub so that all the frigid water could rush out, “Lord it’s like bathing in ice. How could you stand it? You’ll be sick as a dog come morning, I can tell you-!” 

“I’ll fetch a house coat.” Moseley decided, rising up. 

“Should we tell his lordship? Or Mr. Carson?” Baxter wondered softly. 

“Let’s wait to see what the doctor says.” Mrs. Patmore urged, “It’s two in the morning… Mr. Carson will be here in three hours anyways. Best not wake the family unless… well…” Mrs. Patmore’s voice trailed off sadly. “Unless we have to.” 

Baxter said nothing, rubbing Thomas’ back all the while. 

Moseley returned with a house coat, and Thomas was wrapped up in it despite still being soaking wet. There was a tug of wills, half their party (Mrs. Patmore) desperate to keep Thomas still and the other half (Moseley and Baxter) wanting to move him to a warm safe bed. Thomas’ shaking decided the winning party, and so both Baxter and Moseley pulled him up from the bathtub to help him back to his own room. In the dark, without any light save for what would flood in through the hallway, Mr. Moseley and Ms. Baxter laid him down in his bed wrapped up in a housecoat though soaking wet with a towel pressed to the back of his head. Baxter just kept pressure on his skull while Moseley stood guard. Mrs. Patmore sat on the side of Thomas’ bed so that it sank aggressively beneath her weight, and held his hand like one might upon a death bed. Thomas’ fingers were limp and cold between her own. 

“Why is there a broken lamp in the corner-?” 

“Best not ask.” 

Shifting movement around him blurred and faded. Thomas’ dwindling hysteria left him numb and bleak, unable to return to sleep lest he wake again and be unable to scream or move. In what felt like mere minutes, however, firm hands were rolling him onto his side even while his eyes closed, and the stern voice of Dr. Clarkson was urging his name. 

“Thomas?” the sharp sound of snapping fingers before his eyes. Groggy, nauseas and confused, Thomas slowly opened his eyes. The room was spinning wildly, like a child’s top wobbling upon the floor. 

“Oh my god!” Thomas heard Baxter whimper, “What’s going on with his eyes? Why are they blackening?!” 

“He’s bleeding from his ears-“ Dr. Clarkson did not sound impressed, “He’s suffered an open skull fracture-“ There was compression at the back of his skull, a heavy thick feeling like he was being swathed in gauze. “I’ll have to take him to the hospital-“ 

“No!” Baxter begged, “If you do they’ll-“ 

“Ms. Baxter, we are past the point of soft footing.” Dr. Clarkson snapped, “If I do not operate on him, he could die!” 

The voices were growing muddled, some stern and some frightened. Thomas could make no sense of them anymore, could only reason that someone was rolling him onto his back, was shifting him onto a stretcher- 

“I will alert his lordship,” Dr. Clarkson was saying. “And Mr. Carson. May I use your telephone-?” 

Thomas felt someone brush at the bangs on his face, gently stroking his forehead. Unsure of what was going on, Thomas slowly opened his eyes to find that his vision was incredibly blurred. Above him, two people were framing his vision. Someone had turned the ceiling lights in his bedroom on- or so he imagined until he realized that the ceiling above him was domed… 

He was in the entrance hall, supported on a stretcher between two paramedics. Thomas blinked, blearily, and realized that one of the people above him was Baxter. She was still in her lilac bathrobe and was speaking in hushed tones with… Moseley he supposed. Someone else- 

“Sounds like a nightmare- but why-”   
No, never mind, Tom Branson… though Thomas could hardly make out what he was saying. 

“I’m unsure.” Baxter whispered, “but he said he saw Mr. Carson drowning him-“ 

“I once dreamed Mr. Carson was beating me with a rake.” Tom tried for cheer. 

_Well good for you but I don’t see you on a stretcher_ , Thomas wanted to snap. 

Baxter seemed comforted by it though. She continued stroking Thomas’ bangs. 

Clarkson, it seemed, had returned. He was speaking with Branson and Baxter now; Thomas could discern none of it. 

They were moving towards the door; Thomas could feel shifting air upon his face. 

 

There was a bumpy car ride. 

A cold table, a bright light. 

A feeling of warmth spreading through his veins…   
And absolute quiet. 

 

 

 

_My darling_.   
_My darling, my darling, my darling…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much to my patient readers and reviewers. I hope yu continue to enjoy the story because shit is about to get weird.


	5. Sheep Go to Heaven...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An apple a day apparently does not keep a certain kind of doctor away.  
> Meanwhile, Thomas gets the opportunity of a lifetime.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The delay in this work has resulted from the fact that I have a job and other duties to attend to outside of fanfiction. I apologize, but have given you a massive chapter to compensate for my abysmal turn around time. Thank you so much to my readers and reviewers. You truly make my hellish existence slightly more bearable. You're doing god's work.

It was morning. 

Birds were calling, chittering back and forth to one another. Thomas listened to them for a moment, simply keeping his eyes closed as he soaked up the peace of the moment. It was shattered softly by the nonplus chatter around him. He could hear things shifting, like pieces of paper and fabric from trousers or skirts. The smell of iodine was heavy in his nose. Far off he could hear an odd clacking sound, like something hard smacking against tile. 

“-He’ll come ‘round. He’s just not used to change.” 

“I think he imagined I’d stay in service all my life; but I was never happy, you know?” 

“I’m sure he wants you to be happy above all else.” 

“Still, I worry I don’t have his support.” 

“Well you certainly have mine.” 

Thomas opened his eyes, slowly and the world came into focus. He was laying on a hospital bed, at the end of a long silent ward. To his left was a high window beyond which a blue sky could be seen and nothing more. Around him, hanging curtains divided a private area for him to recline in. Before him, two guest chairs had been pulled up so that he could be kept company by Phyllis Baxter and Joseph Moseley. Ms. Baxter was peeling a small orange in her lap, keeping the husk close. Moseley had a book, but was not reading from it and was instead smiling and talking to Baxter. Like always, she had his undivided attention.

Thomas attempted to remember how he’d come to be in this bed… but his mind was a blank. He supposed he must have done something or had something done to him, but for the life of him he couldn’t remember. Had he tried to commit suicide again? It seemed plausible. Why did he feel so calm then? Shouldn’t he be hysterical? Thomas sighed, turning his head a little upon the pillow to look down at his hands. They were under the covers but they didn’t seem heavily bandaged- 

Baxter had realized he was awake. She leaned forward in her chair, reaching out to touch his cheek and forehead which were mildly damp with sweat. Moseley didn’t seem too concerned, but he did watch with mild curiosity as Baxter asked, “How do you feel?” 

Thomas tried to sum up his body. His exhaustion, nausea, aches, and sluggish fever. 

“Bad.” He said. He was disturbed to hear how incredibly throaty his voice sounded. Moseley, on the other hand, did not look surprised and went back to reading his book. Thomas wondered why he was even there; he certainly wasn’t concerned for Thomas’ state. 

“You suffered an open skull fracture when you hit the back of your head.” Baxter explained, her tone soft as if she worried Thomas might panic for loud noise. At this point he was so far past sanity that he doubted anything could truly rattle him. A bomb could go off and he’d presume it normal. When had he hit the back of his head? Thomas couldn’t figure it out- had he fallen? Had he jumped? Surely if he’d jumped high enough to crack his skull he’d have broken another bone… but nothing else seemed out of place. He flexed both his feet and his wrists just to be sure. 

“Dr. Clarkson had to remove a bone fragment from your brain.” Baxter admitted; Thomas blinked. He wondered what else Dr. Clarkson had gotten up to; had he removed those pesky marbles yet? “You’ve been sleeping for four days.” 

“I ought to get Dr. Clarkson.” Moseley said, rising from his chair and laying his book atop his seat with the spine cracked to his page. Thomas watched him, throat constricting at the sight of how calm Moseley was. As if- 

“Why are you here?” Thomas demanded, his tone insulted; in a way he was. Moseley wasn’t his friend. Why was he sitting here at Thomas’ bedside like he belonged here? Moseley stared, calm as ever, but refused to comment as he headed for the divide in Thomas’ privacy curtains. His heart throbbed, bitter, “Talk to me.” Thomas demanded. “Talk to me. Stop ignoring me. I’m a human being, damnit.” 

Moseley paused in his tracks, rigid as if struck by a sudden illness that froze up muscles. He twitched, looking back over his shoulder at Baxter who was frowning sadly…. as if she’d been hoping for something else. Moseley fixed his vest a bit better upon his shoulders, unwilling to look at Thomas for more than a few seconds at a time. 

“I came to sit with Ms. Baxter.” Moseley said, and with that he left. Thomas looked away, eyes pinched closed. His heart was burning in his breast, bitter as it bleated. The marbles were beginning to stir in his brain, making his head throb beneath its many bandages. Baxter placed her hand upon Thomas’ own, stroking his clammy skin lovingly. 

“He’s not the talkative type.” Baxter murmured. Thomas wouldn’t stand to be lied to.   
Not by his only friend. 

“Don’t make me laugh,” He whispered, broken, “He never shut up at breakfast.” 

Thoughts of the servant’s hall made Thomas think of Downton Abbey and how he must surely be fired now. No doubt Carson was ready to chuck him out on his arse the minute he returned- what meagre savings he had would not last him long. He would be dead before long, he reasoned, no doubt on the side of the road frozen stiff like common roadkill. 

His face was wet. Baxter’s fingers were upon his cheeks, wiping away what moisture she found. 

“I suppose I’m fired?” Thomas asked, throatily. 

“No.” Baxter soothed him, and Thomas’ heart unclenched just a bit in relief, “But everyone is very worried about you-“ 

What was this? ‘Lie to Thomas’ day? “Don’t lie to me.” 

“I’m not.” Baxter urged, scooting her chair a little closer so that they could talk more intimately. Thomas opened his eyes to see her very close to him, her arms about his face and pillow to shelter him just as she’d done the night he’d attempted suicide the first time. “Everyone is very worried about you!” 

“Name who’s worried.” Thomas challenged, for he was certain she wouldn’t be able to come up with two people if pressed. 

“Mrs. Hughes, Mrs. Patmore, Daisy, Andy-“ Baxter ticked off, but Thomas cut her off, shaking his head. She pressed forward determined, “Lady Mary is very worried.” Her tone grew stern, “Master George and Miss Sybbie are beside themselves. Lord Grantham is certainly worried about you, her ladyship asks after you every night when I go to dress her-“ 

“Bates doesn’t care.” Thomas whispered, imagining the king upon his throne smirking into a teacup and relaxing in Thomas’ armchair by the fire. He wondered if Bates had tripped him and that was how he’d gotten his skull fracture- 

She’d not mentioned Mr. Carson either. 

Baxter rubbed his brow, toying with his bangs. When unslicked by Brilliantine they were prone to hang as low as his ears, curled slightly at the ends. He’d always had unruly hair. 

Shadows and sounds prologued the appearance of Dr. Clarkson followed by Moseley. Clarkson looked to be in good spirits, a stethoscope round his neck and a clipboard at his side. He smiled down at Thomas in that benign doctorly way- it never quite reached his eyes but it still didn’t seem insincere and it pissed Thomas off deeply. If only he had the energy to be pissed off at all. Behind Clarkson, Mosley side stepped to stand behind Baxter’s chair so that Clarkson could take Moseley’s vacated own. Clarkson did not make to sit, however. He stepped around the bed, coming to Thomas’ other side so that he might take Thomas’ pulse at his jugular vein. 

“Thomas.” Clarkson greeted him, “How are we feeling?” 

Thomas didn’t quite know how to answer that so instead he tried to shrug. The action was difficult though, and he ended up groaning a little instead… not a prospective sign. Clarkson didn’t seem too surprised however, drawing up Moseley’s chair and sitting down to rest his clipboard atop his knees. 

“I want to ask you a few questions, I was wondering if you might consent to answer them?” Dr. Clarkson asked calmly. 

“Yes.” Thomas whispered, knowing full well he had absolutely no choice in the matter. At this point any rejection might be taken for a red flag to send him to a mental ward. 

“What’s two plus two?” 

“Four.” 

“What’s your middle name?” 

“Nathaniel.” 

“When is your birthday?” 

“October thirtieth.” 

“How old are you?” 

“I’m thirty five.” 

“If I told you today was Saturday, what would that make the day before yesterday?” 

He was tempted to say ‘green’ just for the hell of it, “Thursday.” 

“Very good.” Dr. Clarkson was scribbling upon his clipboard, momentarily silent as he wrote what was surely a paragraph, “You don’t have brain damage.” 

“Can I leave?” Thomas asked, wondering what his chances were of slipping out the backdoor while Clarkson wasn’t looking. Maybe he could get Baxter to lend him some clothes, but he doubted he’d fit into her dresses. 

“In a day or two.” Clarkson assured him. “But first I want to know why you were sleeping in a bathtub.” 

What. 

“What?” Thomas asked, agog. Dr. Clarkson did not look put off. 

“Do you remember how you came to be here?” Dr. Clarkson asked. Thomas shook his head (or attempted to) slightly distressed at the scenarios that were now beginning to dance through his head. What the hell had he done to land himself in the hospital? 

“You were found in the men’s lavatory four nights ago.” Dr. Clarkson explained, “Around two in the morning, in three inches of freezing water screaming that Mr. Carson was trying to kill you. That he didn’t have eyes.” 

Thomas stared, eyes as wide as saucers. 

_Well old chum_ , he thought, _You’ve shoved your foot in it now_. 

He was starting to recall snatches now, bits and pieces- an image of Mr. Carson looming above him, features twisted malignantly with dark holes where the eyes should have gone- he shuddered, unnerved. 

“I… I wasn’t sleeping in the bathtub.” Thomas whispered. Dr. Clarkson stared at him, then began to write on his clipboard. Thomas wondered if he swallowed the lie, “I fell asleep in my room… when I woke I was in the bathtub.” 

“So you sleep walked.” Dr. Clarkson surmised. 

“Yes.” 

“And filled a tub with water?” Dr. Clarkson added, tone turning just the slightest bit sarcastic. Thomas wondered if he was visibly sweating now. 

“I… I guess. Yes.” He said. Dr. Clarkson flipped a page on his clipboard, tucking it underneath the slat to continue writing. He glanced up at Thomas, gaze growing stern again. 

“Mrs. Patmore told me that you’ve been refusing meals.” Dr. Clarkson said. Thomas felt ice slide into his stomach. Fear was beginning to make his skin itch, “That you haven’t been eating regularly.” 

“….I’m not hungry.” It was the only excuse he could give. Dr. Clarkson did not look amused. 

“I weighed you after you got out of surgery.” Dr. Clarkson said. “I could count your ribs when I undressed you. You do realize that you’re one hundred and seven pounds? That’s you’ve lost over sixty pounds in the past month?” 

Thomas didn’t know what to say anymore. What excuse could he possibly give. He looked away, eyes somehow falling upon Baxter who was still sitting very close to him. She squeezed his hand supportively but did not look pleased. Unsurprised, and displeased. 

“I think you would be more comfortable resting in the abbey.” Dr. Clarkson continued on, capping his pen and pocketing it to rise up from the chair, “I’m going to have you moved there tomorrow, but it’s also my professional opinion that you need to speak with someone about how you’re feeling.” He stared at Thomas, his eyes making him wilt like a hot lamp, “Do you understand?” 

Thomas closed his eyes, swallowing painfully around his constricting throat. “If you’re going to put me in a mad house, just do it-“ 

“I have no intention of putting you in an asylum. You’re not insane.” Dr. Clarkson assured him. Thomas wondered if he’d say the same thing should he be informed about the marbles in his brain. “But I do think that you need to speak with someone. I think many people at the abbey would find it comforting to know a professional was involved-“ 

“They’d find it comforting if I was dead-“ Thomas whispered bitterly, mouth almost hidden by his pillow. The silence that followed assured him Clarkson had heard his words, no matter how quietly he’d spoken. Clarkson clapped him gently upon the shoulder, squeezing his flesh endearingly before making to leave. 

“I’m putting you on bedrest for at least two weeks until your skull fracture heals.” Dr. Clarkson said, heading for the divide in Thomas’ privacy curtains, “I’ve informed both Mr. Carson and his lordship. If you need anything, you’ll let me know?” 

But Thomas did not reply, and Clarkson did not press him. 

He lay there through the night, slipping in and out of consciousness. He knew now what must have happened- that he must have gone into the bathroom in an attempt to garner some piece only to suffer a hellish nightmare and crack his head against the back of the tub. But why had he turned on the water? Had he just wanted to recreate the effect of the vision between worlds he’d suffered, or was it something else? Maybe he’d turned on the hot water and laid there as if under a blanket- that seemed coy and like him. It was difficult to say though, whether it had been a stroke of genius or insanity which had lead him to get an open skull fracture. Either way he was certain everyone was going to treat him like a lunatic when he returned to the abbey and the thought made him an emotional wreck. He wanted to hide in shame. 

The next day, Thomas lay sleeping without disturbance. Baxter had not come, pinned down by work, and no one else gave a damn whether he lived or died. He was shook awake sometime around noon by Clarkson, who offered him a polite smile when Thomas came to with a start. 

“Thomas…” Dr. Clarkson greeted him, reaching up to gently fix the tail end of Thomas’ bandages. “How are you feeling?” 

“Ill.” Thomas whispered throatily. There was no point in pretending anymore. 

Dr. Clarkson nodded, unsurprised as always, and patted Thomas again on the shoulder with an another calm smile. It still didn’t reach his eyes, “I’m going to sedate you.” He explained, “When you wake you’ll be at the abbey. It’ll help with the transportation if you’re not able to feel the effects.” 

Dr. Clarkson revealed a syringe he’d been holding in his left hand, a slim tube full of pale yellow liquid. He drew down Thomas’ covers so that Thomas’ left arm was revealed- and Thomas was shocked to see a smattering of bruises dotting his skin around his elbow as if he’d thrashed into something blunt and painful. Had he gotten these from the bathtub? He also noted that his wrists were cuffed in thick leather- a darker color than his glove which covered his bullet wound. It seemed Dr. Clarkson had ordered him another covering just like before, though these were held with leather strings instead of buttons. A slight sting was the only effect of the needle as Dr. Clarkson bared the veins in the crook of his elbow and injected the sedative. For a moment they simply stared at each other and Thomas wondered if Dr. Clarkson had accidentally given him the wrong drug. Then— 

It was dark.   
He was beneath heavy covers. 

Thomas shifted, groaning softly. He felt incredibly warm, secure and cocooned though he couldn’t say how or why. He blearily opened his aching eyes to see that his scenery had shifted entirely. Now he was back in his room at the abbey, the door to his room wide open and propped back with his desk chair so that he could see the dim hallway outside where no one stirred. He slowly rolled his head to the right to see his beside table where his alarm clock showed the time was a little after midnight. He blinked, eyes glazing over and making it difficult to discern shapes. He blinked again, a dark shadow at the edge of bed catching his eye as it grew and morphed. 

He hoped.   
He prayed.   
And smiled. 

“…Ed….ward…” Thomas managed to mumble, mouth thick as if full of cotton. 

Edward smiled, perched on the edge of Thomas bed in his army uniform. He reached out, ghostly fingers nuzzling Thomas’ sweaty cheek. Thomas leaned into the touch, drawing as much comfort from it as he possibly could. Edward’s shape kept going in and out of focus, but his fingers never strayed. 

_“Sleep, my dove.”_ Edward whispered, voice as soft as the wind. Thomas fell asleep to it, soothed into a dark blissful slumber by the words, _“My darling, my darling, my darling….”_

 

When he woke, nothing had really changed. 

His door was constantly kept open now, despite his urged protests to the contrary. It was the silent sign that Thomas was now no longer trusted on his own, and it burned him with deepest shame. His only visitor was Baxter during the day, and she stayed only as long as she could. Mostly, she brought him meals made by Mrs. Patmore who seemed determined to swell him up like a balloon. Spoon after spoon, Baxter refused to let him be until he’d eaten at least three bites of each dish he’d been given. It often left him feeling sick, and more than once he had to throw up for the sheer nausea that rolled over him. Walking was difficult; often the room spun. To keep from falling about, he had to cling to someone or something (usually Baxter) and bathing was almost impossible. 

There was no dignity anymore. Baxter had to sit with him (which made Carson squawk though it kept Clarkson happy). She averted her eyes, keeping up small conversation while he slowly sponge bathed himself in the bathtub. The back of his head, once unwound from gauze, was revealed to be clipped slightly shorter than the rest of his hair. There were also stitches, which itched and burned, but Baxter put medicine on his wound and made sure it was kept clean. He kept his knees tucked to his chest, but reasoned in the end that Baxter had already seen him naked as a child, and she was more like a sister now than a friend. In the end he just sat quietly in the tub, letting her dab medicine on his head wound. Sometimes, he’d even close his eyes, relaxing silently into her touch.

That was it. That was the extent of his existence. Meals he vomited and baths he took with company. 

 

 

Three days after his return to the abbey, a solid week after his incident in the bathtub, a visitor came to call. 

It was a foggy morning when he arrived, and the veil of moisture had not yet lifted from the ground. From his room in the attic, Thomas lay oblivious to the world shifting outside his open bedroom door; below in the entrance hall, Mr. Carson walked across soft Persian carpet to answer the door bell. Upon the step, he revealed a man in his late thirties clad in a brown overcoat and trilby hat. Many things about this man were brown: he had curly brown hair and soft brown eyes. His shoes were brown as were his day suit and briefcase. He seemed to seep a persona of calm that washed over even Mr. Carson who felt oddly pleased to see the man though he couldn’t say why. The man bobbed his head, taking off his hat politely to say, “ How do you do, I’m Dr. Robert Kinsey. I’m here to see Mr. Thomas Barrow?” 

Mr. Carson stepped aside, allowing Dr. Kinsey entrance and offered out his hand, “Dr. Kinsey, I am Mr. Carson the butler of Downton Abbey, how do you do.” 

“How do you do.” Dr. Kinsey’s handshake was gentle but firm, the mark of a man who’d been schooled well. 

“Please come with me.” Mr. Carson beckoned with a hand, leading Dr. Kinsey across the hall, “May I take your coat and hat?” 

“Yes, thank you.” Dr. Kinsey offered Mr. Carson both, walking with purpose a step or two behind him so that as they approached the green baize door they did so in unison. “Forgive me for coming through the front door, I was unsure where to enter.” 

“No, it’s quite alright.” It pleased Carson that Dr. Kinsey should acknowledge the divide between servant and master, even if he did not walk it himself, “Allow me to take you to Thomas’ room.” 

“Please.” 

They walked up three flights of stairs. Around them, the house moved and breathed. 

“I am in charge of all male staff at the abbey, as such I can tell you that Thomas has been suffering mentally and shutting out all attempts for help.” Mr. Carson explained. Dr. Kinsey listened intensely, though not to what Mr. Carson assumed, “No one knows how to reach him, no one really wants to.” Carson admitted as they hit the top floor and began to navigate their way through the attic stronghold. Only one door was open. 

It was at this time that Thomas heard Dr. Kinsey’s voice for the first time, a soft melodious tone. He’d been laying in bed all morning after vomiting up a bowl of porridge, feeling clammy and cold despite the warm duvet thrown over him. 

“-We have work to do and we would rather put this into the hands of a professional who has the time and knows what they’re doing-“ the sound of heavy footfalls and an acerbic tone alerted Thomas to the presence of danger. He tensed in bed, legs drawing up to his chest as he shifted higher upon his pillows. 

“Is this his room?” 

“It is.” 

Mr. Carson came around the corner, walking straight into Thomas’ room without a door to stop him. He was followed by a man with curly brown hair and a soft somber smile. He seemed around Bates’ age, perhaps a little bit younger, and carried a briefcase at his side. Upon seeing Thomas, his smile grew in earnest as if they were good friends. As he made to step around the bed, perhaps to shake Thomas’ hand, however, Mr. Carson stopped him with a look of warning. 

“This is Thomas Barrow.” Mr. Carson introduced, gesturing to Thomas like he might a particular painting hanging on the gallery floor, “This is Dr. Robert Kinsey.” Carson gestured to the man at his side, who was still smiling. “He is an associate of Dr. Clarkson’s and a psychiatrist who’s come to iron you out.” 

Dr. Kinsey looked taken aback at that. 

“I’ll leave you to it.” Mr. Carson grumbled, heading back to the hall, “If you need anything- a cup of tea, a fire extinguisher, do not hesitate to ask.” 

Dr. Kinsey blinked. 

As Mr. Carson’s footsteps faded down the hallway, Dr. Kinsey looked at the door propped by Thomas’ desk chair, and pulled it away so that the door might finally close. 

Allowed his privacy once again, Thomas didn’t know what to make of the straight backed man before him clutching a briefcase in one hand and the back of a chair in another. 

“Do you mind if I take your desk chair?” Dr. Kinsey asked. 

Thomas shook his head. 

Dr. Kinsey pulled Thomas’ chair all the way around to the side of the bed, sitting down as Baxter often did. It was only then that he offered Thomas his hand to shake. 

Thomas stared at it, petrified. 

Men like Dr. Kinsey were notorious for sending men like Thomas to mental asylums, and a very large part of him wanted to scream and run from this bespectacled stranger before him. He might look kind and offer a wide smile but… he was still a therapist and the moment he found out Thomas was a homosexual Thomas was certain he’d throw him in prison. Or worse. 

Dr. Kinsey seemed to realize that Thomas was not going to shake his hand and withdrew it, still smiling in earnest. He set his briefcase upon his lap, opening it with a soft click to pull out a pad of paper and a fine ball point pen. He jaunted his leg upon his knee to create a lap desk for himself of sorts, offering Thomas another kind smile. 

“How are you feeling today?” Dr. Kinsey asked. 

Thomas wondered if it would be acceptable to scream. He stared, petrified at Dr. Kinsey. 

“Your colleagues appear to think you are feeling unwell.” Dr. Kinsey said, as calm as could be as if Thomas had not just denied shaking his hand or answering his initial question. “Do you have any idea of why they might have gotten such an idea?” 

This was hell. Pure torture. 

Thomas looked away, taking deep shuddering breathes. He was on the verge of a nervous break down, and had to battle with himself internally to remember that should he snap and scream Dr. Kinsey would probably- would probably- 

But he was talking again. 

“Being a doctor takes a lot of training.” Dr. Kinsey admitted, as if they were very good friends sharing a story over a beer instead of a doctor at a patient’s bedside, “I had a fiancé once. An April Olgate.” he paused with clear affection at the name, “She was beautiful you know, a perfect English wife in the making. I loved her, I did, but I was so busy with my studies and my work that I often had to put her second. She didn’t like that; who would?” Dr. Kinsey mused aloud. 

_What is this man doing?_ Thomas wondered, fearfully, still refusing to look at Dr. Kinsey. 

“She told me in the end that she couldn’t be with me. That she couldn’t play second fiddle to a stethoscope. My best friend at the time… Drew… he said the same thing about a year later. So I was out two people that I cared for.” 

_“But we have been friends-“_ a voice haunted Thomas’ memory, _“And I hope you find some happiness. Truly I do.”_

A handshake that hung on just one second too long to be natural. 

“Then my mother died, and I… didn’t quite know what to make of life anymore. I remember one night I was sitting in my study working on case papers… and I stood up. And I left. I walked right out of my house, I walked all the way to the train station… and I made to purchase a ticket to leave the country.” 

How many times had Thomas wanted to do the same. To simply run away and never look back. He wondered where Dr. Kinsey had been able to go, with the money of a middle class man’s salary lining his pocket. He could have made it to Paris, or even Italy. 

“Where did you go?” Thomas whispered, suddenly finding that he simply had to know. The anticipation was killing him, filling him up with images of sandy beaches that he’d never be able to go to. 

“No where.” Dr. Kinsey didn’t sound concerned about the lack of hope it offered, “I didn’t have enough money. I stood there in the dark, and watched my train leave without me on it. All because I didn’t have an extra throppin’ in my pocket.” Dr. Kinsey shrugged his shoulders with a small sad smile, “I confess I stood there and cried, because I wanted so badly to leave and be free… but I just didn’t have enough money.” 

And there it was. 

Thomas put a hand over his mouth, thinking of bunnies and blank walls, and marbles- skittering and rolling across his- 

“Why hide your feelings?” Dr. Kinsey asked as Thomas wiped furiously at his silent tears. 

“I have no feelings.” Thomas bit out, bitter. 

“Why?” 

“Because I’m evil.” 

For so long he’d wanted to say that, to get out the pain inside of him that Carson, Bates, Lord Grantham- anybody with a mouth really- had placed there. Being told he was evil had slammed down an invisible divider, cutting him off from the rest of humanity even in his direst hour of need. At the same time, the propriety of English society demanded that he never mention it to another living soul, so that he was forced to carry around the burden of shame without relief for the sake of other’s comfort. Now, on the verge of ranting and raving upon his bed, he was finally able to point at it. To throw a flaming torch at it. To scream ‘here it is!’ and let the good doctor know. 

Dr. Kinsey did not look perturbed. When he spoke it was with absolute calmness, not even bothering to write upon his clipboard. “Who told you that?” He asked, rubbing his fingers together, one arm upon his stomach to perch up his other; his ball pen twirled amid his fingers. 

“Everyone!” Thomas blurted, “My father, my mother, my siblings… Mr. Carson…” Funny what his term of ‘everyone’ consisted of, “Everyone.” He mumbled again. 

“And do you agree with their assessment?” Dr. Kinsey asked in a way that suggested he himself did not. 

“No.” How could he agree when he knew he wasn’t- or- 

Did he? Thomas’ head was beginning to ache from the barrage of questions Dr. Kinsey was throwing at him. Couldn’t he just offer up advice like normal doctors? Why did he have to keep asking- 

“Why?” 

Thomas didn’t even know what to say to that. 

“Because…” He flustered, “I… love things? And I’m good? And evil things don’t want to be good?” That was the best he could come up with on short notice, though it sounded like it could have come from a three year old. But Dr. Kinsey was pleased, nodding his head and scratching something down onto his legal pad. 

“I agree.” He mused, “That is a very smart observation.” It angered Thomas endlessly to know that he had utterly no idea whether Dr. Kinsey was being serious or was mocking him. He wiped his eyes bitterly, “I find that the world often judges based on many things, but sometimes neglects to truly se the soul of a man. Seeing the true soul of a person takes patience and understanding. It is fortunate that you know your own soul, don’t you think?” 

“But what does it matter?” Thomas demanded, “No one else sees it. All they see is evil so that’s all I’ll ever be.” 

“Well.” Dr. Kinsey offered, “If you didn’t know your own soul, how could you possible ever share it- the true you- with anyone else?” He twirled his ball point pen repeatedly in his fingers. 

So maybe the doctor had a point, but it was inconsequential at this point, “No one wants to see it.” he muttered. Maybe if he’d had this information fifteen years ago, he could have done something with it. But now…? 

“I-“ Dr. Kinsey began but before he could continue the door to Thomas’ bedroom opened again to reveal Mrs. Hughes. Dr. Kinsey was startled, glancing at Mrs. Hughes only to slide back the cuff of his jacket to view his wrist watch. He looked quite disappointed. 

“I’m afraid the hour is up, Doctor.” Mrs. Hughes explained witha gentle smile. 

Dr. Kinsey gave Thomas a small smile, capping his pen to stow it back in his breast pocket. He flipped his notepad closed, sliding it back into his briefcase to shut it with a snap. 

“I’ll be back tomorrow at the same time.” Dr. Kinsey assured him, “We’ll finish our conversation then. I look forward to it, Thomas. Truly.” At this, Dr. Kinsey offered his hand again for Thomas to shake. 

But there was no point in shaking this man’s hand… not when he’d surely put Thomas in a mental institution by the end of his stay. Dr. Kinsey didn’t take it to heart, instead reaching out to pat Thomas upon the knee. 

“Try and get some sleep.” Dr. Kinsey murmured, rising up and scooting Thomas’ desk chair back to it’s original place at the desk. He didn’t seem pleased when Mrs. Hughes instead took the chair by its backing and drug it to prop open Thomas’ door. They shared a quick glance, one confused and one assuring. 

Dr. Kinsey left, Mrs. Hughes following after him, and though Thomas would never be aware of it they shared a conversation just down the hall. 

“How is he?” Mrs. Hughes whispered as they reached the door divide between the men and women’s side. She locked it behind them, a detail Dr. Kinsey noted with greatest care. This house was structured on rules, not all of them comforting. 

“He is persisting.” Was the answer Dr. Kinsey offered. Mrs. Hughes did not take it with optimism. 

“I’m not sure how I should take that.” She admitted frankly. He appreciated her honesty, the lack of barb in her bite. 

“Right now,” Dr. Kinsey explained, “I can only say this much: that kindness and understanding are key. That patience is essential. I cannot crack the code of a safe in one visit. I need time to understand the situation, which is why I am here.” 

“Well I’m glad you are.” Mrs. Hughes said. They walked down the corridor at a leisurely pace, the keys to the house bouncing upon her hip, “And if there’s anything you need, please tell me.” She paused to offer her hand in a polite shake. He took it, noting her grip was firm was gentle, “I’m Mrs. Hughes, the housekeeper… Mr. Carson’s wife.” 

“Mrs. Hughes.” Dr. Kinsey gave her a small smile, “Dr. Robert Kinsey.” 

“You’re the talk of the downstairs, I can tell you.” Mrs. Hughes said as they began to walk again. There was the gentlest humor in her voice; once again Dr. Kinsey appreciated it, “Why not get yourself a cup of tea if you’re tired?” 

“Thank you, that’s very kind.” Dr. Kinsey said as they hit the stairwell. They descended together, with Mrs. Hughes stopping at the main level to instead pass through the green baize door into the entrance hall. Dr. Kinsey was unaware that her eyes watched his retreating back with slightest sorrow. 

As Dr. Kinsey hit the ground level, he found it packed with maids, most of whom seemed to be on one errand or another. In a large and boisterous kitchen an equally large and boisterous red haired woman ordered another young woman around. She waved a spatula like a marching baton, clearly the cook. He wondered how safe it was to ask for a cup of tea mid-meal preparation, but before he could make to ask he was suddenly encroached upon by an older woman with dark hair twisted into a tight bun and an exhausted expression that spoke miles for anxiety. 

“Dr. Kinsey?” The woman asked, nervously. Dr. Kinsey noted that the corner of her eye twitched a little- that her fingers jittered. This woman had much on her mind. 

“Yes?” 

“May I speak with you in private?” She begged. 

“Naturally.” He agreed, and she took him to a room down the hall lined with shelves full of shoe polish centered around a large work table. Clearly this was a room for shoe shining and mending. She shut the door behind them, wringing her hands as she turned around. 

“How is he?” The woman asked. 

“Persisting.” Dr. Kinsey repeated. 

“Please,” The woman did not like this answer, growing even more fretful as she wrung her hands harder, “Please tell me the truth, I beg you. I care deeply for Thomas and I’m frightened to think of him waisting away if there was something I could only do-!” 

Dr. Kinsey calmed her with his hands, noting that as she spoke in a rush her voice only grew higher and higher. Upstairs Thomas had spoken of being outcasted, yet here was a woman contrary to the concept. Someone who was clearly a friend and deeply afraid for Thomas’ mental state. Who was she? 

“Don’t be frighted.” Dr. Kinsey murmured, noting the woman’s eye was still twitching, “Who are you?” 

“I’m sorry-“ the woman pressed a trembling hand to her brow to dab away sweat, using her other to offer Dr. Kinsey a handshake, “My name is Phyllis Baxter. I’m her ladyship’s maid, and Thomas’ childhood friend.” 

“You knew him in childhood?” Dr. Kinsey asked, amazed. What a find indeed! 

“Yes.” Ms. Baxter said sadly. 

The tone in her voice did not allude to hope. 

“Ms. Baxter…” Dr. Kinsey murmured, keeping his voice as calm as possible. He wondered if she too might profit from a conversation, a helping ear, “Tell me what you know of Thomas’ family.” 

She bent her head forward and began to whisper.

 

The story was far from abnormal though not entirely pleasant and Dr. Kinsey thought on it often for the rest of the night and into the next morning as he settled into the abbey. His room was clean and opulent, his meals were sumptuous and full of splendor… but none of it could distract him from that tiny room in the attic so full of pain. 

Thomas, as it turned out, was the second oldest child of a prominent clockmaker from Stockport, a tiny village in the west close to the coast. His parents were respected in the community, his siblings numbered in six, and his home had been relatively stable. To Ms. Baxter’s eyes, the Barrows had appeared quite kind, and had often offered her a place at their table given her friendship with their oldest child and daughter Margret. Yet Margret had whispered to Ms. Baxter all sorts of things when they’d been alone, tales of her father’s short temper and her mother’s lack of affection save for when sickness called. The little ones had all run to Margret for love, save for one: Thomas. Thomas had run to his father, begged for acceptance… and found himself wanting. 

Then one day, Margret had come home from school to find that Thomas was gone. Neither of their parents had commented on it, had even refused mention of his name at the table during meals. Yet Ms. Baxter’s mother had been home earlier that day and had watched from her sitting room window as Thomas was drug from the back door of the Barrow residence only to be flung into the yard where he’d been beaten heavily by his father who’d called everything from a ‘devil worshiper’ to ‘diseased’. Thomas had cried upon the stoop, begged for forgiveness and a second chance, but the door had been slammed in his face. Thomas had limped from the yard, vanishing into the woods never to be seen again until Ms. Baxter had received a letter from him during a dark time in her life nearly twenty years later. He’d heard of her woes, and wanted to offer her a position in a grand and illustrious house: Downton Abbey. His position had come at the price of being his spy, and though Baxter had initially agreed out of lack of prospect she’d had to turn on him when she realized that those he wanted her to spy on her were good people. He’d been less than thrilled, but had come around in the end. 

After all, as Ms. Baxter had been so eager to make clear, she was Thomas’ dearest friend. 

So it was that the next day true to his word Dr. Kinsey climbed the stairs of the servant’s hall to the attic floor. Yet upon rounding the corner to Thomas’ room he found the bed empty. Taken aback, unsure of where Thomas was, Dr. Kinsey checked the bathrooms and all other rooms, knocking hesitantly upon each door. The entire attic was empty, and he headed downstairs to the ground floor unsure of where Thomas had snuck off to. 

It seemed his patient was incredibly clever at avoiding his pain. 

On the ground floor he ran into Ms. Baxter again, an oriental coat over her arm and a sewing box in her other hand. She smiled when she saw him, walking straight up to him though her eye was still twitching slightly at the corner. 

“Ms. Baxter.” He greeted her warmly. 

“Are you looking for Thomas?” She asked, sounding rather humored. So it seemed she knew where he’d run off to. 

“I am.” Dr. Kinsey admitted, “He wasn’t in his room.” 

“He’s hiding from you in the garden.” Ms. Baxter explained, cracking into a small but genuine smile. 

“Then that explains it. Thank you.” Dr. Kinsey wasted absolutely no time, side stepping so that Ms. Baxter could pass. He made for the back door, determined to find his patient. 

 

Thomas had thought himself incredibly clever to sneak out of his room, even going so far as to put on day trousers and a jacket. He’d not been able to pull of his undershirt, feeling too woozy when he’d lifted his arms over his head. Mrs. Hughes had attempted to make him get back in bed _(“Thomas, what are you doing now?!”)_ but when Thomas had begged her for a bit of fresh air she’d conceded momentary defeat if only to make him stop “fretting”. He’d then sequestered himself deep in the garden, hiding behind a wall Lady Grantham’s lilac roses. The weather had been slightly chilly but his jacket kept him warm. The smell of the fragrant blooms lulled him into a false sense of security as the hour began to pass. He smirked as he thought of Dr. Kinsey trodding around the abbey at a loss- 

But Thomas stopped smirking when he heard the sound of heavy feet encroaching his private venue. He opened one eye, frowning in dismay as Dr. Kinsey rounded the wall of roses to smile at Thomas crouched in the corner curled up in the manicured grass. Dr. Kinsey approached with ambivalent ease, as if they were good friends instead of Doctor and patient; he plopped down next to Thomas, setting his briefcase aside to grumble a little and relax against the wall of roses. He even plucked one, smelling the little purple bloom with a small smile. 

“I thought if I hid out here you wouldn’t find me.” Thomas muttered, bitter. 

“We don’t have to talk.” Dr. Kinsey assured him, which made Thomas feel slightly more at ease. “But I have to sit here with you until the next hour’s up or Carson will probably have something to say about it.” 

But this did not bother Thomas nearly as much as it should. Carson’s abuse was as common as a rain shower to him, and arguing with it did nearly as much good, “Carson always has something to say. You know he once told me I should be horsewhipped? Maybe he’s the one who needs therapy.” 

“That’s not a very kind thing to say.” Dr. Kinsey said, and at first Thomas thought he was being chastised until Dr. Kinsey said, “I bet that made you feel terrible. Sometimes I wonder if the people who hurst others in such a way are hurting inside themselves.” 

If only everyone had the ability to understand this, “Explains me.” Thomas mumbled, “You know they all hate me.” He warned, “They wonder why you’re even here.” 

“Do they?” Dr. Kinsey mused, turning to glanced at Thomas. He still had the rose to his nose, practically speaking into the blossom, “Am I not here because they expressed concern about you?” 

Thomas shook his head, unwilling to be duped, “You’re here because Dr. Clarkson made you come.” 

“It’s true that Dr. Clarkson was the one to make contact with me, but according to his words he was doing so because of other’s concern for your wellbeing.” Dr. Kinsey paused, opening his briefcase to put his clipped bloom inside. He drew out his notepad as well, tugging free his ballpoint pen from his inner vest pocket, “And just to be clear, I wasn’t made to do anything. I’ve enjoyed my time at the abbey thus far.” 

“Of course you have.” Thomas muttered bitterly, pulling his legs up to his chest so that he could prop his chin atop his knees. He looked away from Dr. Kinsey to stop himself from glancing at the notepad upon his lap. He couldn’t say why but for some reason it just felt rude to look, “you’re normal. And what others expressed concern for my wellbeing? No one cares about me.” 

Dr. Kinsey smiled, twirling his pen through his fingers again, “I had an older brother that was the social butterfly of the family.” Dr. Kinsey offered, “Always knew what to say, the whole family adored him… Me I couldn’t string three words together without starting a riot at the dinner table. But you know what?” He turned with a smirk, “I was still a member at the family, and I always had a place at that dinner table. Even if I didn’t want to acknowledge it.” 

But Thomas’ seat at the dinner table had been easily taken by Moseley without another to be offered to him… and his own family had practically ignored him at the dinner table during meals. He could remember not being passed dishes, having to actually fight for food just so that he wouldn’t go to bed hungry. Some might say it was the mark of having six siblings to contend with but Thomas knew better. When had Margret ever had to beg for food? Or Daniel? 

“I’m the ugly black sheep.” Thomas muttered. “No one wants me at their table.” He leaned into the rose wall, head lolling upon his shoulders as he closed his eyes again. 

“Is that so.” Dr. Kinsey didn’t sound convinced, “You know, fleece is just as warm, black or white.” 

“I’d give anything to be a white sheep.” Thomas admitted softly. 

“Why?” 

Thomas didn’t answer, unwilling to admit to Dr. Kinsey that he was a homosexual. The minute he did it would be off to a psyche ward with him, he was certain. He instead tugged at tufts of grass by his legs, fingers soon stained green at the tips. 

“Do you care about what they think?” Dr. Kinsey asked gently; Thomas could hear the pen scratching against the pad of paper and knew that he was writing, “About you?” 

“Yes.” Thomas said. He was glad Dr. Kinsey had asked. It had been a fact long hidden inside of him. Someone needed to know it. 

More writing. More scratching. 

“It must hurt terribly.” Dr. Kinsey mused, “To be outcasted by the people you love.” Once again Thomas did not answer, “Maybe we could help open the avenues for communication?” 

“It wouldn’t come to anything.” Thomas whispered, shaking his head. If only live were that easy. 

“Do you know that for a fact?” 

Thomas nodded, glum. More writing and scratching. 

“So it won’t hurt if I eat downstairs with you tonight?” 

The marbles rolled in Thomas’ head, warning him. 

_What is this man doing?_ they skittered, nervous. _Why does he ask so many questions?_

Thomas finally shook his head, unsure of what else to say. What honest excuse could he give to keep the man away. If he wanted to eat downstairs, he had every right to. Unlike Thomas. 

“Good.” Dr. Kinsey said. He heard an odd clipping noise and looked around to see that Dr. Kinsey had capped his ball point pen to slide it into his vest pocket again, “Let’s see if the downstairs eat better than the upstairs.” 

 

Thomas blinked, nervous. 

 

The next day Thomas found himself incredibly nervous and unable to focus. He tried to read but couldn’t make out the words. He tried to sleep but couldn’t. He walked about in his room, but found that he grew dizzy if he paced too much. In a warped plan for sleep, he walked till he was incredibly dizzy then collapsed onto his bed. 

But once the dizziness passed he still wasn’t asleep and lay in a bitter mood till daylight faded into darkness and sounds of footsteps coming up the stairs alerted him to unwanted company. He sat up in bed, wary. Andy came around the corner, dressed impeccably in his livery. 

“It’s time for dinner.” Andy said, “I thought I’d let you know.” 

Thomas rose from bed, moving slowly lest he grow dizzy, and dressed in the same trousers and jacket from yesterday in the garden. He couldn’t find it in him to put on his livery. He couldn’t even pull his braces up over his shoulders, so exhausted was he. Instead he put on shirtsleeves and tugged on his jacket so that it hid his lack of a vest. He was horribly undressed by Mr. Carson’s standards, and knew that he was in for a scolding… but perhaps this was what needed to happen. If Dr. Kinsey saw the lack of sympathy he would stop imagining Thomas to be dramatic. 

He trod carefully downstairs, taking each step with caution and clinging carefully to the rail. If he looked down for too long, he grew dizzy and had to stare straight ahead lest he fall. By the time that he reached the bottom step on the ground floor he felt incredibly unwell and walked slowly to the servant’s hall. Most of the maids were gone for the day, with only one or two staying for dinner. He wrapped his jacket tightly about himself for warmth, entering the servant’s hall to find it mercifully empty. Wanting to get warm, he took his armchair by the fire and sat down slowly. The blaze warmed the ache in his bones, making him feel as if he was in bed instead of downstairs, and he even curled his legs up beneath him. His feet stuck out awkwardly beneath the arm rest. 

He closed his eyes, listening to the meticulous roll and pop of the fire. 

A terse cough interrupted him. He opened his eyes to see Mr. Carson glaring dully at him, gripping the back of the rocking chair opposite to him. Thomas tensed, his jacket feeling oddly thin even as he gripped it to his chest. 

“Is this the new fashion?” Carson gestured irritably at Thomas’ lack of dress, “To mix day wear with work wear? Or did the bump on the head addle your brain?” 

“I’m cold” Was the only answer Thomas could come up with. Mr. Carson looked distinctly uncomfortable when he heard it, shifting upon his heavy feet and pursing his thin lips into a scowling line. 

“Don’t make a habit of it.” He muttered, turning away and leaving for the hall. Thomas slumped back into his rocking chair, realizing in hindsight that he hadn’t even risen for Carson as was expected of servants. It seemed his manors were slipping. He closed his eyes again, turning his face to the fire, and for a moment he was left alone to bath in the heat. He tried to imagine that he was outside in a lovely open field, that the warmth he felt was actually the sun on his face and not a fireside. 

“…Thomas…?” 

Thomas opened his eyes again to see Daisy before him, bearing a solitary cup of tea upon a chipped saucer and looking, in a word, guilty. She didn’t seem to know what to do now that she was before him with tea, remaining stock still as Thomas blinked blearily at her. 

“…What.” He asked when she did not make to speak further. Daisy offered him the cup of tea, meek and mild in stark contrast to how she’d acted when she’d called him out in the servant’s hall. From openly proclaiming him a thief to offering him a cup of tea… this was new. 

“I made you a cup o’ tea.” Daisy murmured. 

Thomas reached out, exhausted, and took the cup of tea. It rattled upon the saucer in his grip, and he had to clutch it with both hands before it toppled over and scalded his skin. He took a hesitant sip, finding it flavored with honey and lemon, and glanced back up at Daisy. 

She’d made it just the way he liked it. Daisy was twiddling with her fingers, unsure of what to say. In the end she seemed to think her errand completed in silence and turned to leave without another word. Thomas was left to sip tea on his own, which was just fine by him. He closed his eyes, drinking deeply, and allowed himself to be consumed by the burn of the-

“Thomas!” 

Thomas choked on the tea, shocked by the loud warm voice near his ear. He nearly dropped the teacup, but was saved by a hand which shot out to help him steady the violently rattling cup upon its saucer. He looked around, amazed, to see Dr. Kinsey who seemed to have realized in hindsight that it wasn’t a good idea to startle Thomas. He was cursing himself internally with a bitter smile, offering him an apologetic glance as he helped him to set his teacup down. His coat and hat were missing- someone must have let him in. He clapped Thomas upon the shoulder as Thomas set his teacup down on a side table, coughing and pulling his jacket tighter to his chest to keep warm. 

“Sorry to bother you old chum-“ Dr. Kinsey apologized, taking the chair opposite Thomas to sit down easily. Thomas blinked; no one had ever referred to him as an ‘old chum’. Dr. Kinsey took notice of his discomfort, shifting easily upon his seat to gesture at the daily paper which was folded on Thomas’ side table next to his teacup. Thomas hadn’t even seen it sitting there- 

“Anything good in the paper?” He asked. 

“I wasn’t looking.” Thomas admitted. 

“Just relaxing by the fire?” Thomas nodded, “Then I will too.” 

Thomas watched, unsure of what to say or do in his newfound company, but Dr. Kinsey was quite content to relax with his hands folded over his belly and his face turned to the fair. He rocked with an easy smile upon his face, and Thomas found himself taking Dr. Kinsey in for the first time. Truly staring at him and getting a look at the man. 

He was handsome, slightly older than Thomas with a fine jaw line and soft curly brown hair that hung rather loosely at the nape of his neck. Thomas found himself wondering what Dr. Kinsey saw in him; why he kept coming back and pestering him. Surely he was learning by now that Thomas was a lost cause. Was he just bored or in it for the paycheck perhaps? Thomas wondered how much of this was coming out of his monthly wages- 

Thomas bitter interlude was interrupted by the arrival of Ms. Baxter. She walked around the back of Dr. Kinsey’s chair, smiling when she saw the man and gripping the back of Thomas’ chair so that they were both staring at him. Dr. Kinsey was happy to see Ms. Baxter, reaching out and offering her his hand to shake which she gladly accepted over Thomas’ shoulder, “Ms. Baxter! How are you?” 

“Well, thank you Dr. Kinsey.” Baxter said at ease. Her weight on the back of Thomas’ chair shifted his center of balance, causing him to lean back a little more than strictly necessary but he didn’t mind. “Are you joining us for dinner?” 

“I am.” Dr. Kinsey said with an easy smile, relaxing back into his rocking chair, “I hope it won’t jostle the seating arrangements too much.” 

“We’ll just pull up another chair.” Ms. Baxter assured him, but this made Thomas incredibly bitter and he turned to stare at the fire with an audible huff. 

“It’s nice to know there’s always another chair.” Dr. Kinsey offered. Thomas scowled even more, remembering how when Mr. Moseley had rejoined the table he’d been forced to eat in the kitchen. 

“When it can be found.” Thomas added bitterly under his breath. 

“How do you mean?” Dr. Kinsey asked, curious. 

“When I lost my seat, there wasn’t another chair to be found. Funny how that works.” Thomas snapped, suddenly wishing Baxter would get off his chair. He shifted, uncomfortable for how she made him lean back. 

“What are you talking about?” Baxter asked, politely confused. 

“When Moseley stayed for dinner and took my seat!” Thomas snapped, certain she knew exactly what he was talking about but playing dumb for the presence of the doctor, “I had to sit in the kitchen-“ 

“Thomas.” Ms. Baxter sounded quite exasperated now, coming around the side of his chair so that they could look one another in the eye. She gave him a pitiful smile, shaking her head. His nostrils flared, “Mrs. Patmore wanted you to sit in the kitchen. We moved your chair into the kitchen because she and Mrs. Hughes wanted you and Daisy to work out your argument. When we went outside, Mrs. Hughes told Daisy off for speaking brashly. You certainly had a chair.” 

Thomas looked back to the fire, turning his back on Baxter. She didn’t mind, merely touching his shoulder to massage the tense muscle she found. 

“Daisy, that’s a new name.” Dr. Kinsey mused. “And Mrs. Patmore?” 

“Mrs. Patmore is the cook.” Ms. Baxter explained, “Daisy is her assistant.” 

“Ah!” Dr. Kinsey exclaimed, “I see. So that’s why you sat and ate in the kitchen-“ 

“He didn’t particularly eat.” Baxter corrected, “He went upstairs.” 

“Were you not hungry?” Dr. Kinsey asked. Thomas shook his head refusing to engage in the conversation. “Are you hungry now?” Thomas shook his head again. “So what are you going to do during dinner?” 

Thomas said nothing, a long moment of silence following Dr. Kinsey’s question. It was at last broken by Baxter who said, “He’ll probably sit and not eat. Which is what he usually does.” She did not sound happy about that. 

Dr. Kinsey leaned back in his rocking chair, drumming his fingers upon his lips and looking at Thomas through narrowed eyes. Thomas refused to catch his glance, instead allowing himself to become entranced by the way the fire overtook a log slowly reducing it to glowing ember and ash. 

Others were entering the servant’s hall: Carson, Mrs. Hughes, the Bates and Andrew… they each took their place at the table, Mr. Carson sitting first so that everyone else could clamber into their seats. The sound of wood dragging across stone introduced a new chair to the table, and Baxter squeezed Thomas’ shoulder endearingly. 

“Come on,” She urged, “Let’s sit down.” 

But Thomas didn’t want to sit at the table. Thomas wanted to sit at the fire and be left alone. Dr. Kinsey was watching everything now, his eyes wide and blazing as he watched how each person interacted with another at the table. Everyone was chatting, smiling, enjoying themselves- but no one was coming over to talk to Thomas. Dr. Kinsey noticed this but did not let his emotional reaction show upon his face. 

“Shall we?” Dr. Kinsey offered to Thomas instead, gesturing to the table at large. Thomas merely continued to stare at the fire. 

Dr. Kinsey got off of his chair, and at first Thomas thought that he would be left alone at the fire until- to his shock- Dr. Kinsey took a knee before Thomas so that they could speak privately despite the growing audience. 

“I promise you it won’t be painful.” Dr. Kinsey murmured, looking up into Thomas’ face. Thomas continued to stare at the fire, refusing to meet his eye. Dr. Kinsey didn’t seem to mind, “I won’t be docking points from some tally.” 

Wouldn’t he? Thomas was unsure. 

“If you’ll join us, Mr. Barrow-“ Carson sneered from the table, “Some of us wish to consume our food.” 

A scatter of snickering broke out. Thomas refused to answer. 

“We’re coming, Mr. Carson.” Dr. Kinsey assured the table, “If you’ll just give us one moment.” 

The snickering stopped. 

Dr. Kinsey looked back around to Thomas, leaning in even closer so that he was practically whispering in Thomas’ ear. 

“I’ll sit beside you, yes?” Dr. Kinsey urged, “You can introduce me.” 

Thomas shook his head. He didn’t want to talk. 

“Then you needn’t speak at all.” Dr. Kinsey assured him, and there was a true gentleness in his voice. “I promise you, Thomas. I won’t let anything bad happen to you tonight.” 

He glanced at Dr. Kinsey, and found the man smiling.   
He didn’t know whether to believe him or not… but Carson’s patience wouldn’t last forever either way. 

Exhausted, irritable, Thomas rose from his rocking chair. Dr. Kinsey got off his knees, following him to the table so that as Thomas sat to the right of Ms. Baxter, Dr. Kinsey sat to the right of him next to Mr. Carson. Mr. Carson gave Thomas an irritable huff at his lack of dress once more, and as Mrs. Patmore brought in the first round of meat and vegetable to place it upon the table Mr. Carson spoke with looming authority so that the whole table grew silent. 

“This is Dr. Robert Kinsey,” Mr. Carson explained, beginning to cut into the roast beef Mrs. Patmore sat before him so that everyone could have their slice, “He will be our guest tonight, so please try to be on your best behavior…” He paused, grumbling to himself, “As abysmal as even that is.” 

Mr. Carson began to pass the plates around. Dr. Kinsey received a helping of roast beef first. 

“Thank you, Mr. Carson.” Dr. Kinsey said. Food was passed out and though Thomas received a plate of roast beef he did not feel compelled to eat it. He instead began to sip on a fresh cup of tea, keeping absolutely still as conversation broke out around him. Dr. Kinsey didn’t speak either, which Thomas thought was incredibly odd. He’d been under the impression Dr. Kinsey had wanted to speak to everyone but realized now that Dr. Kinsey only wanted to observe. He merely wanted to watch, as if this was some kind of spectator sport- 

“What kind of doctor are you, Dr. Kinsey?” Anna spoke up from down the table. Dr. Kinsey had to glance around both Thomas and Ms. Baxter to see her, and offered her a polite smile as he smiled a mouthful of roasted brussels sprouts. 

“I’m a behavioral psychologist, with a specialization in social psychology.” Dr. Kinsey explained. 

“Are you Thomas’ therapist?” Anna asked, and Thomas could not help but notice everyone at the table grew a tad bit quieter as if to all eavesdrop on the same conversation. Mr. Carson bristled mid bite of roast beef, eyes narrowed at Anna. 

“I am.” Dr. Kinsey said. Was it Thomas’ imagination or did he sound less than enthused? 

“There’s a job no one wants.” Bates muttered around his mashed potatoes. 

Right. 

Thomas rose up, ready to leave the table, but was suddenly grabbed on both sides by Dr. Kinsey and Ms. Baxter. They forced him back into his seat, Dr. Kinsey speaking up. 

“Easy, Thomas.” Dr. Kinsey offered gently. “Give me my chance.” 

Thomas gripped his teacup with unnecessary force, glaring into the cup as he took a long sip. 

“I quite disagree,” Dr. Kinsey offered, and though he negated Bates there was a tone of joviality in his voice that disgusted Thomas. How dare he be chummy with these people? “I find Mr. Barrow to be a great conversational partner.” 

Thomas stared, forgetting about his tea and his irritation as he blinked owlishly at Dr. Kinsey. He offered Thomas a bemused smile, even winking god help him. Had it been under different circumstances Thomas would have thought Dr. Kinsey was flirting with him. 

“I’m sure he’s charming.” Bates sneered in a voice that insisted anything but. He wasn’t even looking at Dr. Kinsey, instead merely staring at his roast beef as he took a bite. 

“Do you disagree?” Dr. Kinsey asked, and once again he spoke in the calmest voice. Bates was starting to get annoyed, Thomas could tell in the stiffness of his shoulders and how he looked around to stare at Dr. Kinsey. Thomas bowed his head, staring resolutely at his tea lest he burst into flames from the heat of Bates’ gaze. 

“I don’t agree.” Bates corrected him. Dr. Kinsey did not back down, still smiling as he took another bite of roast beef. 

“Why?” 

“Experience.” 

“Well.” Dr. Kinsey offered the entire table a smile now, “We’ve all been surprised at one time or another, haven’t we?” 

“Thomas has never surprised me.” Baxter spoke up, surprising even Thomas in her vocal support. Normally Baxter kept quiet, “I know him to be wonderful.” 

“Then you are the only one.” Bates grumbled around a mouthful of vegetable. 

“I’m sure she’s not.” Mrs. Hughes said across the table. She cut her roast beef carefully, eyes flickering back and forth from Bates, to Baxter, to Thomas, to Dr. Kinsey. “I happen to enjoy Thomas as well.” 

Bates huffed. Dr. Kinsey spoke up again, distracting the entire table, seeming to sense that Bates’ patience was close to its end. “Now, I’m not familiar with everyone here. Would it be too heinous of me to ask names?” 

“Certainly not.” Mrs. Hughes assured him. 

“I’m Anna Bates.” Anna spoke up first, ever the diplomat for goodness. She offered Dr. Kinsey a small but honest smile, “I’m Lady Mary’s maid.” 

“Ah I see.” Dr. Kinsey nodded, and he tipped his head to her. “How do you do?” 

“How do you do.” She chuckled back, returning to her plate. 

“I’m Andy Parker-“ Andy spoke up, but when Carson coughed, he had to amend his answer, “Andrew, I mean-“ 

“Andy to me then.” Dr. Kinsey offered with a smile. 

“John Bates.” Bates spoke up from Anna’s other side. “His lordship’s valet.” He did not even bother looking at Dr. Kinsey, which Thomas found incredibly rude. He suddenly wanted to call Bates out at the table but didn’t, sensing disaster on the other end of that sentence. 

“His lordship has been most gracious allowing me to stay at the abbey while I conduct my work.” Dr. Kinsey said. Bates slowed in his eating, eyes narrowed as he glanced up to glare at Dr. Kinsey. Dr. Kinsey did not bluff in his stride, “He’s very well spoken, which isn’t always a guarantee at Eton.” 

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean-“ Mr. Carson snapped, ever the one to hold up the honor of the noble gentry. 

“Only that his lordship’s manors are superb even for a gentleman.” Dr. Kinsey explained. At this Carson looked quite smug, slicing his roast beef neatly with renewed enthusiasm for their dinner guest. Bates looked impressed to, even grinning though it was a small bitter thing. Thomas stared at Dr. Kinsey, wondering what game he was playing. Had he deduced that complimenting Lord Grantham was the way to Bates’ and Carson’s hearts? Or was he being genuine. “Don’t you think so, Thomas?” 

Thomas was taken aback, having not expected for Dr. Kinsey to ask his opinion on anything, never the less Lord Grantham. In truth, Thomas had no problem with the man though he’d never been in the occupation of praising him like Bates or Carson. He was fair, but he’d also chastised Thomas several times in a way that he could only describe as ‘fatherly’. It had made his skin crawl, reminding him of how his own father had forced him to sit in a corner for hours when he’d misbehaved in his youth. Many times, Thomas had had to eat in that corner, not being allowed back to the dinner table- 

“You’ll have to forgive him.” Bates muttered nastily when Thomas refused to speak, “His own manors are lacking.” 

“Ah, once again we are ships that pass in the night.” Dr. Kinsey said, though humor tickled his voice. “We must find something to agree on. Quick, what’s your favorite meal?” 

“I’m fond of fish and chips.” Bates said after a moment. He sounded slightly suspicious. 

“Ah, there we go.” Dr. Kinsey grinned as he finished his roast beef, “Excellent now we have something in common.” 

The others tittered, amused. 

“But do you use lots of vinegar or a little?” Dr. Kinsey asked, finger pointed in warning. Bates grinned, sneering as he finished his mashed potatoes. 

“Depends upon my mood.” Was his sly answer. 

“Oh that’s an easy answer.” Dr. Kinsey chortled, “I’ll have to keep an eye on you.” Bates just kept grinning. 

The others continued to eat, but now seemed at ease. Dr. Kinsey had passed their unspoken test of trust by gaining Bates’ enjoyment. Thomas rubbed at his brow, a headache suddenly blossoming in his skull. He looked down at his plate, still full of food and growing cold. He pushed it away a little, unable to look at it. The smell was making him nauseas. He took another sip of tea, finishing off his cup, and made to pour himself another. To his shock his grip was so weak he could not pick up the pot. Baxter had to do it for him, though she did it with a smile and even offered him the honey pot as well as a slice of lemon for him to garnish his drink. He did so, his gaze low as he stirred in both. 

“I wonder if you could find it in you to get him to eat.” Mr. Carson muttered to Dr. Kinsey under his breath so that no one else could hear. Thomas bristled, nauseas at being called out. Dr. Kinsey paused, a fork of brussels sprouts hanging mid air. For the first time, he looked uneasy, but he did not glare at Carson. Instead, he listened intently. “He looks like a skeleton, and it’s unseemly upstairs. The family have been complaining.” 

Thomas’ cheeks flushed in embarrassment. Dr. Kinsey ate his forkful of food slowly, pondering his answer. Thomas noted that he did not speak without first thinking through every word very carefully… a mark of a truly intelligent man. 

“That is a dangerous occupation.” Dr. Kinsey warned softly. 

“I beg you pardon?” Mr. Carson grumbled. 

“You cannot demand that kind of change.” Dr. Kinsey warned, “Nor can you criticize. If you try to trick or force someone to eat it can make the situation much worse. Accusatory attitudes likewise have no place. There are no simple solutions… and I’ve learned that this is a sign of serious bullying.” 

Mr. Carson seemed to find this laughable as he took a long sip of tea, “No one is bullying him.” He chortled. 

“Ah. I see.” Dr. Kinsey did not sound impressed. He turned in his seat, looking across from Thomas to Ms. Baxter who had finished her meal and was now helping herself to a bit of apple crumble. She offered him a slice, which he accepted, and a sumptuous wave of apple passed Thomas nose as the dish went by. 

“Tell me, you said you knew Thomas from childhood?” 

The conversation was growing dim again. Both Anna and Bates looked around amazed, as did Mrs. Hughes. Baxter fell silent, slightly taken aback, and Dr. Kinsey seemed to realize that absolutely no one else had known their connection. 

“You what?” Anna asked, amazed. 

“… We were next door neighbors, yes.” Ms. Baxter explained. Anna looked at her husband in amazement. “I even used to babysit him.” 

“Oh goody.” Bates muttered irritably. Thomas bristled again, unsure of why it was that that particular comment spurned him so. 

“No.” Baxter warned, so that Bates paused mid bite of crumble with a wary look upon his face, “He was wonderful. He never fused, except for one time he did run around naked in the backyard and got his father’s trousers filthy.” 

This prompted another wave of snickering across the table, though a sharp look from Mr. Carson shut it down. Thomas closed his eyes, setting his tea cup down. He wanted to go to bed- he felt so ungodly tired. 

“oh I did much worse than that.” Dr. Kinsey offered, dabbing at his lips with a napkin to grin at the rest of the table. 

“Telling tales on yourself?” Mrs. Hughes asked with a small smile. Dr. Kinsey just shrugged. 

“Well I can’t let Thomas have all the fun now can I.” Dr. Kinsey mused, “I once went to a very luxurious dinner party at a grand estate with my parents when I was but four years old. I was dressed smart, I got to eat from a fine plate- I was delighted. And in the back yard there were a massive pond centered around a shooting fountain. On the fountain there were nests of butterflies that gathered nectar from large flowers. I remember thinking what an incredible sight it was.” 

“That sounds beautiful.” Anna praised. Dr. Kinsey beamed at her. 

“It was! Thank you!” He continued on, “You see I wanted to partake in such beauty.” 

“I know where this is going.” Bates mused. Others were beginning to snicker. Even Mrs. Hughes was smiling enraptured. 

“So I reached out-“ Dr. Kinsey opened his hand to the air, “And fell into the pool. And couldn’t swim.” 

“Goodness.” Mrs. Hughes chuckled, “However did you get out?” 

“The butler of the estate fished me out and ruined his livery. Worst of all, he carried me inside to have my father towel me off and the poor man tripped! And broke his ankle. I successfully maimed the butler.” Dr. Kinsey shrugged bemusedly. Carson snorted into his apple crumble, causing the others to snicker loudly. “What I’m trying to say Mr. Carson, is do be careful around me. I’m notorious among upper staff.” 

The others were incredibly relaxed now, and though before today Dr. Kinsey had been a stranger to them he seemed to have garnered their respect. Even Bates was at ease, which was a mark… Bates rarely relaxed around strangers. 

“I’m afraid Thomas never did anything that notorious.” Baxter spoke up, “He was the perfect child. He even picked me flowers.” 

“How nice.” Mrs. Hughes smiled sweetly from across the table. Thomas flushed, looking down at his tea cup. 

“I believe I was your childhood sweetheart.” Ms. Baxter said, which made Anna laugh, “You certainly were quick to dote on me. You’d find me treasures and tell everyone I was the most beautiful girl in the world.” 

“But that’s precious!” Anna said aloud. 

“If only you’d stayed that nice.” Bates grumbled, relaxing in his chair and crossing his arms over his chest. 

“Ah, but he did.” Baxter warned with a small smile, “You were out in the garden today, picking flowers.” She looked to Thomas, her expression turning quirky, “Who were you picking them for?” 

Everyone around the table looked at him now, waiting for an answer. Even Bates. 

Thomas took a slow sip of tea. “Mrs. Hughes.” He finally said. The table jerked into a round of loud snickering. 

“Oh dear.” Mrs. Hughes spoke up above it all, smiling at Baxter in dismay as she shrugged, “What a shame.” 

Eager to put off his headache, Thomas slid his plate back and took a small bite of roast beef. It was barely a helping, more like the pecking of a bird, but it sated his stomach and kept him from feeling nauseas. He pushed his plate back. 

Dr. Kinsey smiled. 

 

~*~

After dinner, Dr. Kinsey sat with Thomas by the fire again. He watched as Thomas consumed three bites of roast beef and a roll, pleased that he’d at least eaten something amid all the toil. Even if it was small, it was a success, and Dr. Kinsey did not take it for granted. He watched as Thomas relaxed by the fire, noting how incredibly thin he was. His jaw line and cheek bones were incredibly pronounced, the bruising beneath his eyes from his open skull fracture making him look as if he’d been smacked by a boxer across the face. His collar bone could be seen even beneath his shirt, and his neck was quite thin. In recompense, Thomas’ hands seemed abnormally large, all the bones in his wrists and fingers incredibly obvious. His arms were thin, like the branches of a small tree. Though Thomas would not be able to realize it without suffering a sense of anxiety, the reason he felt comforted by the fire was because his body was unable to retain heat without its layer of fat. He needed to eat and soon, or his body would suffer even more complications. Dr. Kinsey considered all the concepts and ideas he’d heard at university, watching as Thomas dozed and pretended not to hear the conversation around him so as to be left alone. 

Dr. Kinsey noted that the Bates were leaving for the night, fetching their coats and hats from the hallway. Eager to catch them before they were gone, Dr. Kinsey rose and followed them till he could catch them by the back door. 

“Mr. Bates.” Dr. Kinsey called out, “May I speak with you both in private before you go?” 

“Certainly.” Bates said. Dr. Kinsey noted that Bates used a cane as he walked and favored his right leg only slightly. His stiff posture and glaring tendency leaned towards time in service, given his age probably the Baur war. Dr. Kinsey also noted that despite being gay and light, Anna Bates remained oddly subservient at her husband’s side and did not speak up often in his presence. He wondered at the state of their relationship. He also wondered if Bates noticed that Thomas often behaved in the same way Anna did around him- if he ever thought as to why that was. Dr. Kinsey was almost certain he knew: Thomas liked Bates (whether in an inverted way or not) and desperately sought his approval. 

Dr. Kinsey took them to the same room full of boots and polish that Ms. Baxter had introduced him to yesterday, and shut the door behind the three of them to garner privacy. 

“I’ve learned this is the room for secrets.” Dr. Kinsey offered to ease the tension. 

“You’re catching on quick.” Anna Bates smiled tenderly. 

“Mr. Carson better watch his ankles.” Bates sneered. Dr. Kinsey noted that Bates was not particularly malicious, not up front, but he probably he could be if pressed. He was a tight knit man who kept his cards close to his chest and refused the help of strangers… Dr. Kinsey wondered if Bates considered Thomas a threat, and if so, how much? He doubted it. With arms like the limbs of a thin tree, Thomas was as much threat as a butterfly. 

“What is your relationship with Thomas, if I may?” Dr. Kinsey asked Bates. He stiffened, narrowing his eyes suspiciously again, “The reason I ask is because he is most preoccupied with your feelings towards him. Indeed…” Kinsey mused, “He cares greatly about you.” 

“I find that very hard to believe.” Bates growled; at his side Anna refused to speak now, “Thomas spent a good ten years making every day here a living hell for me. He tried to get me fired several times; he’s a notorious liar.” He added warningly, “I’d be careful not to believe what he says on the first try.” 

Dr. Kinsey just stared, refusing to be blocked by a mere wall of ‘He’s a liar’. 

People like Thomas did lie for fun. They lied for protection. 

Bates seemed to realize that Dr. Kinsey would not be put off, and snorted softly, shaking his head as he tried again. 

“Our relationship is… complicated.” Bates finally conceded. 

“I agree.” Dr. Kinsey offered in support. Bates carried on, speaking much softer now with great introspection. Bates was clearly a man to throw up a wall at first; a trait he and Thomas shared whether or not he knew it. 

“Once, Thomas made a very… bad mistake… and I had to help him out.” Bates explained, “After that… we weren’t particularly enemies but we certainly weren’t friends. It’s difficult to explain. Thomas and I are locked in an eternal struggle. It’s hard to make an outsider understand. It’s hard for me to understand.” Bates added, bitterly. 

Dr. Kinsey nodded, wondering what on earth Thomas had done to so need Bates’ help. He did not comment on it however, finding that it was irrelevant to the situation before them. What mattered now wasn’t Thomas’ mistakes; it was Thomas’ relationships with others in the house. 

“What if I told you that Thomas was you friend?” Dr. Kinsey offered gently. Bates said nothing, though he did not scowl, “What if I told you the reason Thomas wasn’t eating was because Thomas was punishing himself. Because he felt hated by you and Mr. Carson… like was evil and unfit to eat at the table with the everyone else.” 

Bates continued to stare, absolutely silent. 

“What would you say?” Dr. Kinsey offered again, just as gently as before. Best not to push too hard. Bates looked down, then at Anna, raising one eyebrow. She looked at her husband just as silent as he. It seemed they were having a private conversation before Dr. Kinsey which wasn’t too uncommon in his experience with married couples. 

“I’m trying to open lines of communication between you and Thomas, Mr. Bates.” Dr. Kinsey explained, “But I need your help.” 

Bates sighed, wearied by the suggestion, “Do you think you can help me or does that make you uncomfortable?” 

“I don’t know what you expect.” Bates muttered. 

“I expect absolutely nothing.” Dr. Kinsey assured him with a gentle smile, “Save for new communication no matter how small or meagre. I need the same thing from Mr. Carson but somehow I think you’ll be more receptive.” 

Bates shifted a bit on his cane, raising a dark eyebrow, “What makes you think that.” 

“Because I think you are Thomas’ friend, Mr. Bates. Even if you won’t admit it.” 

Bates closed his eyes for a moment, sighing again. At his arm, Anna petted his jacket sleeve. He looked down at her again, and smiled hesitantly with him. 

“… He fights with the whole word, Mr. Bates.” Anna murmured softly. Odd that she shouldn’t call her own husband by his first name, “Not just you.” 

“And he keeps on losing.” Bates mused. 

“It’s as simple as this, Mr. Bates.” Dr. Kinsey said, attracting both their attentions, “Are you his friend or not. The rest is detail. The rest falls to the side. Yes or no.” 

Bates fixed his bowler hat a little better upon his head, straightening the cuff of his collar. Anna did the same, recognizing that they were leaving. 

“… I’ll see what I can do.” Was the only offer Bates gave him, but Dr. Kinsey knew how to read a ‘yes’ when he was given one. 

The Bates’ tipped their hats to him as they left, and Dr. Kinsey opened the door for them so that they could leave. He watched as they walked out the door, noting that Anna automatically intertwined her husband’s hand with her own. As they left out the back door, Dr. Kinsey rubbed his brow a little, then headed for Mr. Carson’s office which he only knew for its prime location amid the servant’s hall. He found the door closed, and knocked carefully to hear Carson grumble from the other side “Enter”. Dr. Kinsey did so, opening the door a little to see Mr. Carson behind a large desk drinking a small glass of sherry. Mrs. Hughes was with him, sipping from her own glass, and smiled kindly at Dr. Kinsey as he shut the door again. 

“Dr. Kinsey.” Mr. Carson said, “How may I help you?” 

“I hope I haven’t bothered you both at an important time?” He asked, but Mrs. Hughes shook her head. 

“Not at all. “She declared, “Please, sit down.” He did so across from them, feeling a bit like he had while still at school and before the principle. 

“How is our patient?” Mr. Carson said, in a voice that wasn’t particularly sarcastic but still clipped. 

“Oh, he’s persisting.” Dr. Kinsey said, for if ever there was one to take up that verb and definition it was Thomas Barrow. 

“I suppose you’ve had your fill by now?” Mr. Carson asked, and Dr. Kinsey realized Mr. Carson might have mistook his visit for a departure. 

“Oh no.” Dr. Kinsey shook his head, “No, I came to talk to you about your relationship with Thomas.” 

“I have no relationship with him.” Mr. Carson corrected him. Next to him, Mrs. Hughes set down her sherry, giving her husband a sharp look. So it seemed she disagreed. 

“How so?” Dr. Kinsey asked, never one to be confrontational when it came to such matters. Patience was key. Patience and communication. “You are his boss, technically.” 

“Thomas has never sought help from me.” Mr. Carson explained, “I might order him about but that’s the extent of it.” he nodded his head, content with the idea that Thomas was detached from him. Unfortunately that wasn’t the case. It seemed Mrs. Hughes knew this too, for she sighed again, staring plaintively at Dr. Kinsey. 

“Is it?” Dr. Kinsey offered, causing Carson to stare warily as if Dr. Kinsey were urging him to do something particularly unlawful or dangerous, “Mr. Carson, allow me to be frank with you.” 

“I would appreciate it.” Mr. Carson said in clipped tones that suggested his patience was reaching its end. 

“You’re a man of facts, of diligence and hard work. I think you keep good relationships with all your staff save for Thomas, and I want to know why.” 

Carson sighed, irritated, “Thomas is not what I look for in an employee. He is lazy, undisciplined, and a liar.” 

“That must be very disappointing.” Dr. Kinsey mused sympathetically. 

“Indeed!” Carson snorted. 

“Where did you learn your work ethic from, if I may ask?” Dr. Kinsey wondered. 

“My father.” 

“So it was in your blood, you might say?” 

“Well.” Carson reasoned, “I wasn’t always this hard working.” 

“Oh I see.” Dr. Kinsey noted that Mrs. Hughes was just as silent as Anna when her husband was speaking. He wondered why, again, “So you’ve been in Thomas’ shoes?” 

“Well I have never been a liar.” Carson warned, irritably. 

“I never insisted that.” Dr. Kinsey urged at once, knowing that should he attempt to disaster would be waiting for him. Carson had very little patience for nonsense. “Only that you know how it feels to be… lost… per-say.” Carson stared at him, warily, “Because that’s what he is. Lost.” 

Carson took a slow sip of port. “I am aware.” 

“And maybe what he needs is… a guiding hand?” Dr. Kinsey offered extending his own in gesture. 

“I could guide him for ten thousand years and it still wouldn’t be enough-“ Mr. Carson muttered nastily under his breath. 

 

_“Watch out for Mr. Carson, the butler.”_ Richard Clarkson had warned him over the phone, _“It’s no secret he does not care for Thomas. I am of the firm opinion it was Mr. Carson’s bullying agenda that pushed Thomas to suicide.”_

Dr. Kinsey drummed his fingers over his lips, carefully weighing his options. Mrs. Hughes was a good woman, kind and understanding. She did not seem pressured by her husband, or frightened in his presence. She was not meek nor meagre. She could easily speak his mind, or so Dr. Kinsey could see. This, to him, denoted that Carson was not particularly violent or cruel by nature. If Mr. Carson was so to Thomas, it was rooted in spitefulness and irritation, not in base concept… so that meant there was hope for an answer. 

But first, they had to address the elephant in the room. 

“Mr. Carson, I am aware that you do not care for Thomas.” Dr. Kinsey assured him. Carson raised an eyebrow, though this time he was not wary. “That you do not approve of him being a homosexual and you probably find him a nuisance on this staff, but the fact of the matter is that Thomas looks to you, looks up to you, and needs your guidance in this trying time.” 

Mr. Carson was amazed at this, setting down his glass of port to stare Dr. Kinsey directly in the eye. “So you know he is-“ 

“A homosexual, yes.” Dr. Kinsey said, “I’m a student of Freud.” 

“I imagined as such.” Mr. Carson did not sound impressed nor annoyed at this. 

Unwilling to lecture the man but understanding that facts had to be presented, Dr. Kinsey went for the clipped version of details, “The fact of the matter is that Thomas, in his early life, must have experienced something incredibly pushing towards his father, no doubt desperately looking for love and support- or likewise experienced something distressing in regards to a female, such as cruelty from his mother. It's an inversion. He’s seeking love from other men because he never had a man love him. In every homosexual there are the blighted germs of heterosexual tendencies. In Thomas’ case they were never able to develop because his father never loved him or showed him support. Indeed it is my belief that he emotionally, mentally, and even physically abused Thomas… and Ms. Baxter has confirmed this for me.” 

_“I never saw it myself.”_ Ms. Baxter had whispered in the room full of boots, _“But Margret told me horrible things. How Thomas wasn’t allowed to eat at the table with the rest of the family. How he was like the scapegoat, and could be blamed for anything that went wrong. Eventually, it came to be that only Thomas was blamed because it was convenient for the others. I hated it… and so did she.”_

“I see.” Mr. Carson sighed, taking another sip of port to finish off his glass. Mrs. Hughes poured him another in silence, seeming to find that it was better to remain silent at this critical moment. Mr. Carson did not look pleased by the facts Dr. Kinsey presented, but he did seem appreciative. As if he’d needed to hear someone say it for years. “I confess I’m not surprised.” 

“He’s not eating because he’s punishing himself, Mr. Carson.” Dr. Kinsey explained. Carson pursed his lips, “He’s punishing himself for not being good enough for you or Mr. Bates. Do you see?” 

“He has never expressed interest in being a member of our family-“ 

“Openely.” Dr. Kinsey added quickly. Carson fell silent again, listening intently, “But there is such a thing as shyness. As timidness… and forgive me if I insist that Thomas is incredibly timid towards you.” He paused knowing that he was about to tread onto very thin ice. “That comes with being declared you ought to be horsewhipped.” 

Both Mrs. Hughes and Mr. Carson bristled. Mrs. Hughes stared at her husband, silent but glaring. Mr. Carson seemed to realize her eyes were upon him, and was almost cowed as he instead coughed a little and shifted in his seat. Dr. Kinsey regretted nothing, knowing now that Carson would have to confront that particularly rude sentence and its effects. 

“I see.” Mr. Carson coughed again, “He told you that, did he?” 

“… You scared him, Mr. Carson.” Dr. Kinsey said softly. Mr. Carson did not look pleased, his expression slackening into something very close to guilt. “His heart never forgot that pain.” 

Carson fingered the rim of his glass of port, silent for a moment. Mrs. Hughes did not touch her own glass, watching the conversation unfold intently. 

“What would you have me do?” Mr. Carson asked after a moment. 

“Lend him a hand, emotionally.” Dr. Kinsey offered “Be patient with him, and offer him your understanding. Above all, look to him as a member of the family, as much as you would Anna or Mr. Bates. He wants your approval desperately. Give it and see what happens.” 

Mr. Carson spoke carefully, not wanting to sound suggestive but every word laced with cautionary hope, “If I approve… will he become… normal?” 

“Heterosexual?” Dr. Kinsey defined. Carson nodded, but it was a tiny jerk of the head and nothing to write home about. Next to him Mrs. Hughes gave him a look of dry irritation. “It’s possible after a prolonged exposure to male sympathy and understanding that Thomas might stop seeking love from men… but it's difficult to know. These cases are often individualistic. I cannot look at results across the board but I can try and help him reason with his sexual inversion if that makes you feel better. But he’ll need your approval either way for any change to happen.” 

Carson seemed satisfied by this answer. Just for good measure he added, “And what if I don’t approve.” 

Dr. Kinsey stared, and though he did not speak with malicious tone, his words reeked with ominous warning: “Buy a pine box.” 

~*~

In his demotion to second footman, Thomas lost a great deal of tasks to Andy. Admittedly he was still primarily in charge of polishing silver and such, but Andy was the one now who laid the table with Mr. Carson and served tea. This left Thomas an odd amount of free time that he hadn’t been able to have before. 

He did with it the only thing he thought appropriate: cared for the children. 

Without a nanny, the maids were the ones who dressed, bathed, fed, and cared for the children until a new one could be found. At least, they were the ones until Thomas cut in and offered to take the job for them. They were more than happy to hand the responsibility over, already being laden down by their own work and not needing more. There was no one in the world that Thomas liked being with more than the children, and it absolutely delighted him that he could do so now (and even call it work related). Marigold needed the most care, still being no bigger than one. She mostly clung to him, hoisted upon his hip as he juggled Sybbie and George as good as any professional governess. In the morning as early as six, Thomas went up to the nursery and woke the children for their breakfast. He fed them porridge and toast, dressed them in their day clothes, and set them up with tasks to do before begrudgingly handing them over to a maid and heading downstairs for his routine chores. When it was time for afternoon tea, Thomas took his upstairs again, and played with the children as long as he could until once again he had to hand them off to a maid in order to have his daily session with Dr. Kinsey and polish more silver downstairs. Thomas likewise ate dinner with the children (lying and claiming to take a tray to his room) and made sure they ate enough supper before giving each of them a bath, putting them in their pajamas, and reading them a story in bed. They got tired of their old books and in the end simply asked Thomas to tell them a story all his own. Thus Thomas told them amazing such as “The Witch of O’Brien” and “The Valet and the Cursed Snuffbox”. 

Though their favorite story by far was “Princess Jimmy and the Bad Kiss”. 

He told no one about his adventures with the children, preferring to keep it to himself. Even Dr. Kinsey was completely unaware, though for some reason he didn’t seem to mind that Thomas didn’t talk continuously during their sessions. He didn’t seem to mind anything, actually… What a strange man. They talked about anything Thomas desired, from the weather to art, and when Thomas felt the darkness inside him surge Dr. Kinsey instead asked questions that no one before had ever dared such as, “Why” and even more dangerous “why not”. Thomas didn’t know how to answer most of these questions, at least not initially, so Dr. Kinsey urged that he ought to start writing down things in his journal. Thomas didn’t do this, and instead focused on spending more of his time with the children. Dr. Kinsey urged that he ought to do things that made him happy, truly happy. Being with the children made him truly happy. This, therefore, was an excellent use of his time and ought to make Dr. Kinsey happy even if he technically didn’t know it was occurring. 

Thomas couldn’t please everyone, after all. 

The next Sunday, Andy had requested the afternoon off in order to go into the village. Thomas, being the second footman, therefore took over his tasks for the day and would not be able to be with the children. With this in mind, Thomas paid extra special attention to them as he lovingly brushed Sybbie’s chestnut hair. She, like her father and mother, possessed unnaturally good looks, and she used them every chance she got as she gave him a thoughtful stare from her vanity mirror. Sitting on his lap, she played with a pink silk ribbon between her fingers. Marigold was upon the floor, hurriedly stacking and knocking ABC blocks to her pleasure. George sat upon his bed, watching and waiting his turn impatiently. His little legs kicked back and forth, his blue eyes narrowing as Thomas continued combing Sybbie’s hair. 

“Mister Barrow?” Sybbie spoke up. 

“Mmm.” Thomas caught her eye in the vanity mirror and gave her a small smile. 

“Will the bobbies catch the bad nanny?” Sybbie asked. 

“Perhaps.” Thomas mused; such a smart child to consider all the outcomes, “What matters is that she didn’t hurt any of you. Neh?” He bent to the left, so that he could smile upon her shoulder and gently pecked her cheek. She grinned cheekily and kissed him back, no doubt smelling his aftershave and pomade. 

George gave a tiny jealous noise of discontent. Thomas scooped Sybbie about the waist, hoisting her off so that she could be set upon the floor and go off to play. Thomas gestured for George, who immediately clambered off the bed and hopped upon Thomas’ lap. Thomas winced as George bounced rather exuberantly upon more tender areas. It hadn’t been his intention, obviously; Thomas shifted his legs to alleviate the pain between them and set about brushing George’s hair. He grinned in the mirror and Thomas grinned back, tucking a golden lock behind his ear. 

 

 

With Andy gone to the village it was Thomas’ duty to serve afternoon tea in the library. The family was gathered there for the most part, with Lady Mary and Branson playing with George and Sybbie while Lady Grantham held Marigold on her lap and Lord Grantham paced the floor. In her basket by the hearth, Tiaa chewed on a toy, practically gnawing the thing to death in her enthusiasm. 

Dr. Kinsey was out at the moment, apparently down in the village taking a late lunch with Dr. Clarkson. Apparently they were old friends; it made sense that they might see one another while Dr. Kinsey was in the area. This was good for Thomas, who didn’t enjoy serving the family while Dr. Kinsey was near. For the most part, he kept his interactions with the family to a minimum and for that Thomas was grateful. But he was still, technically, rooming in their manor and would from time to time greet Lord Grantham when they met on the stairs or join the family for breakfast. 

Thomas watched as George and Sybbie prattled with each other while playing with their parents. Branson was more keen for a hands on approach, allowing Sybbie to grab books and bring them to him for her amusement. She mostly wanted him to point out pictures of places in geography books, eager to know which historic sight was closer to Yorkshire or in England at all. George on the other hand sat patiently in his mother’s lap, mostly watching Thomas pour and serve tea. Lady Mary drank her tea with one hand and held George with the other while Henry sat beside her and mused over a motor magazine. In lack of fresh sport, he often contented himself looking over pictures of new cars. Thomas could hardly blame him, the poor man must be going stir crazy by this point. Downton was far from a race course. Most of the time. 

“I still can’t believe this happened.” Lady Grantham tisked, stroking Marigold’s auburn curls. She’d clearly inherited Lady Edith’s hair, “She was so nice.” 

“Thieves always are.” Lord Grantham said as he paced the floor and accepted a fresh cup of tea from Thomas, “That’s how they make their way in.” 

“Are the police any closer to catching her?” Lady Mary asked. 

“They’ve had a few leads, but nothing successful as of yet.” Lord Grantham said, blowing gently upon his tea. 

“Well at least the maids have been taking good care of you.” Lady Mary said smugly, stroking George’s neck so that she could play with the blonde curls at its nape. 

“No.” Sybbie corrected her aunt, and before Thomas could stop her she said, “Mr. Barrow has.” 

“Goodness!” Lady Grantham looked around with a puzzled if genuinely polite smile. Lady Mary raised an eyebrow. “You have been very helpful. Thank you, Thomas.” 

“M’lady.” Was the only reply Thomas could summon up, bobbing his head in an expected manner. He prayed to god Sybbie would hold back from telling the family just how extensively he’d taken care of them. He had a feeling their good graces and appreciation would only extend so far. 

“But surely the maids have been doing some of the work,” Branson said, though Sybbie continued to shake her head till her chestnut hair swung about her like a cloud, “Who else could have been dressing and bathing you? Barrow would have been run ragged otherwise.” 

“No. He’s been doing all of it.” Sybbie corrected. Across the couch, Lady Grantham gaped in astonishment, “He’s been taking care of all of us.” 

Lord Grantham looked about, bemused, “Is this true?” 

Thomas blanched, certain that they would be able to see the blood draining out of his face as he meekly answered, “M’lord.” 

“But, how have you been able to be a footman and a nanny to the children all a the same time?” Lord Grantham asked, setting down his tea cup to address Thomas without distraction. 

“I can’t imagine it possible.” Lady Grantham scoffed softly from the couch, still smiling bemusedly. Thomas flushed, looking down at the Persian carpet beneath his feet. 

“…I… I manage my time as best I can, M’lord. And I don’t require much sleep.” Thomas mumbled. 

“Goodness.” Lady Mary set her teacup down as well. He even had Branson’s full attention as he set Sybbie’s books aside. “But that’s far too much work for one man to take on.” 

Thomas’ heart sank from sad to anxious as Lord Grantham added, “I’ll have to speak to Carson about this, Thomas. It’s far too much work for you-“ 

“But I don’t mind, M’lord. Truly!” Thomas urged, hating to sound like a whimpering child though that was exactly what he was in the eyes of Lord Grantham, “I like looking after them! It’s the best part of my day-“ 

“And we’re very grateful to you,” Lady Grantham urged in that oddly firm American way of hers. She was still smiling though Thomas couldn’t see what there was to smile about “But you’ve had a difficult summer. It would be unfair to put so much strain on you when you’re trying to recover.” 

It was one of the rare times that someone openly referred to Thomas’ July-from-hell, and he winced physically as he looked away to stare at the bookcase against the far wall. It seemed like Lady Grantham realized why Thomas was suddenly silent, and coughed gently to cover up the tension in the air. Lady Mary, however, had chosen the opposite corner of her mother and defended it staunchly. 

“Well I for one am glad to know it’s you looking after George and the girls.” Lady Mary said, taking back up her teacup. Henry flipped a page in his motor magazine. Branson just continued to stare. “At least we know you have a good heart.” 

Branson raised an eyebrow at this, grinning as he picked back up Sybbie’s book and flipped to a new page. Sybbie became engrossed with a picture of Stonehenge. 

“Mister Barrow always checks for the boogey man.” Sybbie said, flipping a page to another map. Thomas could not help but smile a little, recalling how only last night he’d checked underneath both George and Sybbie’s beds before likewise searching the closet and declaring their room ‘safe’. 

“Trust me Sybbie,” Branson joked, ruffling his daughter’s hair, “There’s nothing scarier in the house than him.” 

Thomas stiffened, unwilling to admit how badly that stung. 

“Tom.” Lady Mary grumbled, sounding slightly disgruntled as she raised an eyebrow. Branson raised his hands with a cheeky grin. 

“I mean it in jest!” He assured. Lady Mary was satisfied, smirking into her teacup. 

“Still.” she muttered around the rim. 

 

Thomas spent of the rest of the day in utter fear of what Lord Grantham would say to Mr. Carson and how the events would unfold forthwith. He feared chastisement and prayed he could get out of it though he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that it was coming. That Carson would call him all sorts of names and sent him back emotionally about twenty years. In his state of unending nerves, Thomas fell asleep by the fireplace in the servant’s hall with his teacup barely touched and his temples pounding. He was awoken by a firm but gentle hand upon his shoulder, and jerked out a black dreamless sleep to see Anna before him with one of Lady Mary’s favorite frocks over her arm. 

“Thomas-“ Anna straightened back up, giving him a disapproving frown, “Mr. Carson wants you in the library with his lordship.” 

Thomas straightened up in his chair, cracking his back to relieve his stiff joints. Anna blanched at the noise he made, like one of Mrs. Patmore’s empty egg crates when she broke it down for scratch wood. 

“Were you asleep?” she asked. Thomas nodded in way of an answer, rubbing his eyes blearily as he stepped around Anna and made for the door. Andy wasn’t back yet, so it clearly wasn’t time for dinner. He couldn’t have been out for more than half an hour at most; as he climbed the stairs to the main floor he desperately tried to quell his nerves within him. It wasn’t like he’d been caught doing something ‘bad’ per say, just something ‘unusual’. Unfortunately for Thomas, ‘bad’ and ‘unusual’ were one in the same book for Mr. Carson who probably still wore a victorian one-piece jumper for bed clothes. 

Outside of the library, Thomas nervously straightened his bowtie and fixed his hair. He took a steadying breath and opened the door to the library to find the family once again clustered around the couches. Mr. Carson was between them, speaking in hushed tones with Lord Grantham and looking quite stern as Thomas shut the door behind him. The children were no longer in the room; perhaps they’d been sent upstairs for their afternoon nap. Thomas was trying to regiment them on a nap schedule finding that if they went down before dinner they were prone to be in a better mood and easier to put down for the night. 

“Ah. Barrow.” Lord Grantham addressed him; he bobbed his head in dutiful response, “Carson and I were just talking about the new arrangements in the household. We both agree the strain of being nanny and a footman is far too much for you to take on by yourself.” 

Thomas sighed, deflating internally and unable to keep from frowning. He’d been preparing for this since Lord Grantham had declared he wanted a word with Carson, but it still hurt to hear. Between being with the children and being with the other servants, Thomas knew which one he preferred. The children didn’t consider him a monster, unfeeling and obtuse- they wanted to play and to kiss him on the cheek. They let him brush their hair and tuck them into bed. 

The other servants wouldn’t even look him in the face when they spoke to him.. and the words they shared were at a bare minimum most days. 

“Papa…” Lady Mary mused, straightening up a little on the couch so that Henry had to shift as well from where she’d been leaning on his arm. “Why not have Barrow be the nanny until we find another?” 

Thomas looked up, renewed hope sparking inside of him at Lady Mary’s allegiance to his plight. Lord Grantham looked taken aback and he wasn’t the only one. Carson wore a facial expression as if someone had just handed him a dead fish. 

“Are you certain?” Lord Grantham asked, curious. Lady Grantham looked between them both, curious to see how this conversation would unfold. 

On the couch across from the all, Branson stiffened. He said nothing but looked slightly wary as if he didn’t enjoy the idea of Thomas having such un monitored access to his daughter. 

“Wouldn’t it be a little out of his territory?” Lady Grantham spoke up, not unkindly, “Thomas has no special training in child care.” 

“He’s been looking after George, Sybbie, and Marigold all this time and doing a fine job of it, I must say.” Lady Mary deflected. Lady Grantham couldn’t deny it, and shrugged a little as she looked at her husband, “Why not let him and until then have Andrew be the only footman.” 

“That’s hardly fair on Carson.” Lord Grantham gestured to his butler in defense, “He needs the extra set of hands-!” 

“It wouldn’t be for long.” Lady Mary deflected once again, proving herself an immeasurable ally, “Only until we found a proper nanny… and anyway after the summer Thomas has had, maybe he needs a change.” 

“It would be an interesting change at that.” Henry added from the couch. 

Carson did not look happy. He grumbled and huffed, shifting irritably from foot to foot as he weighed the odds. Lord Grantham seemed to think this in Carson’s hands alone, and stayed silent as Carson finally pursed his lips to murmur, “If that is what my lady wishes.” 

Thomas heart raced, the idea of being the nanny full time making him swell up with delight. To think, he could be with the children all the time! He couldn’t keep the smile from spreading on his face, and didn’t even mind when it made Lady Mary smirk.

“I only wish for the house to run smoothly, and Thomas passing out on the lawn will not help.” Lady Mary continued on, which made Carson raise an eyebrow, “It won’t be forever, Carson.” she smiled gently, hands shifting upon her lap, “And I should think every little girl would love to be cared for by her butler.” 

Carson broke into the smallest of smiles, a tender tiny thing that did not last. It was no secret downstairs that Lady Mary was Carson’s favorite. Now that he saw it in action, Thomas was mystified. Somehow the man that ranted and raved he should be horsewhipped was the same man who doted and fawned over Lady Mary with the tenderest of affections.

“Don’t pretend you can argue with Lady Mary, Mr. Carson.” Henry joked from the couch. Carson tutted, though hardly in irritation. 

“Then with your lordship’s permission?” Carson asked dryly. Lord Grantham shrugged, taken aback but still willing. 

“It’s unorthodox.” Lord Grantham admitted, “but at least he won’t steal the sapphires.” 

“How can he when they’re already gone?” Branson joked from the couch. Thomas pursed his lips, deflating slightly. Of course, Branson wouldn’t have forgotten Thomas’ thieving ways from 1912. But Thomas didn’t want to think of ugly things now- he wanted to be with the children… and if Lord Grantham approved?

“Tom!” Lady Mary chastised again. 

“Jest!” Branson assured her with a generous smile, “I mean it in jest.” 

“Still.” Lady Mary muttered, raising an eyebrow in disapproval. 

“Thomas doesn’t seem the thieving type to me.” Henry said, which accounted for nothing since Henry hadn’t been in the damn house a month. What on earth could he possibly know? 

“Thank you.” Lady Mary turned to her husband with a smirk, glad someone was taking her stance. 

Carson gestured to Thomas with the flick of a hand, sending him away as if he were a pesky fly and not a human being, “Then up and away with you.” Carson grumbled, “the children need you.” 

Thomas looked from Carson to Lord Grantham to Lady Mary, trying to determine whether this was a joke or truly news to celebrate for. Lady Mary just kept smirking, even daring to waggle her eyebrows at him as he suddenly began to beam.

“Can I-?” Thomas asked, still slightly unsure. So unused was he to hearing good news that when it actually came his way he didn’t know what to do. Lord Grantham seemed to find this all very funny, “Can I truly?” 

“You can.” Lord Grantham replied with a chuckle, “Truly.” 

“OH thank you, M’lord.” Thomas gushed, unsure of how else he could best phrase his praise. “Thank you! Thank you, so much!” 

And with that, he ran from the library. He could have sworn he heard Lord Grantham laughing outright. 

 

Upstairs Thomas found the children squabbling over toys and books, not going down for their scheduled afternoon nap at all, and he at once dismissed the overwhelmed maid who’d been ordered to care for them. She all but fled from the nursery, clearly in over her head and unwilling to stay a moment longer when she could be making a bed or ironing linens instead. Back in charge and utterly delighted by the prospect, Thomas broke up the squabbling, put the children in their prospective beds (and crib), and set them down for their nap. At first their were irritated, babbling how they wanted to ‘play’, but within ten minutes all of them were zonked out, mouths open and snoring softly as they sweated into their pillows. Thomas took the moment to clean up the nursery, putting toys away and throwing dirty clothes in the hamper. He rang for a maid to take it down for washing, and settled into the nursery rocking chair to watch the children sleep. He’d wake them in time for their supper, then set them to a task and eat his own. They’d bathe, go down, and Thomas would sneak out without any the three of them being the wiser. 

Yes, the life of the nanny was a good one. 

Near the end of nap time, Marigold began to whimper, and Thomas checked in on her to find that her nappy needed changing. Having had six siblings (five of whom had been younger than him) Thomas was more than aware of the bits and bods to changing a soiled nappy and fetched Marigold a doll to chatter to while he set her right. Halfway through it, there was a knock on the nursery door, which opened to reveal Dr. Kinsey who Thomas had forgotten all about. He’d no doubt been searching for Thomas for their afternoon session. 

“My goodness, you’ve been busy.” Dr. Kinsey said softly as Thomas finished wrapped Marigold in a fresh nappy. She chewed on the arm of her doll, looking up at him with wide blue eyes. 

“Work never stops.” Thomas mused. 

“And who is this little one?” Dr. Kinsey asked, stepping around the side of the changing table so that he could smile down at Marigold. She watched him cautiously, but didn’t seem to mind him as Dr. Kinsey plucked at one of her auburn curls. It sprung instantly back into place. 

“Marigold.” Thomas introduced them. “Lady Edith’s daughter-“ but he suddenly realized the blunder in this and flinched on reflex as Dr. Kinsey looked at him curious, “… We can’t say it out loud, but that’s who she is.” 

“Ah, I see.” Dr. Kinsey didn’t judge, continuing to stroke Marigold’s many curls, “Poor little orphan.” He murmured. 

Nappy changed, Thomas threw the old one in a special hamper and buttoned up Marigold’s slip. He always let them change before a nap, finding they slept better when they weren’t fully dressed. 

“I spoke with Mr. Bates and Mr. Carson.” Dr. Kinsey said. Thomas stiffened, nerves picking up again. 

“What about?” He asked, plucking Marigold up from the changing table. She immediately entangled her hand in Thomas’ hair, pressing her face into his neck. He allowed it, soothing her as he pressed kisses into her forehead. 

”About your need to be loved by them-“ 

Thomas’ heart jumped in his chest; he whirled about, eyes blazing at Dr. Kinsey as he hissed, “You did _what?!”_

If he hadn’t been in a nursery around sleeping children with one hiding in his neck, he would have screamed at Dr. Kinsey. The idea of such a conversation even taking place made him nauseas, made him want to grab Dr. Kinsey by his ridiculous gorgeous curls and slam his head against the nearest wall he could find. He imagined the look of revulsion upon Bates’ face, the sneering indifference upon Carson’s. 

“Why would you do that?” Thomas spit out between clenched teeth. 

Dr. Kinsey just gave him a small smile. “Because it needed to be done.” 

Thomas looked away, horrified. How would he ever be able to look Carson or Bates in the eye again? How would he be able to explain Dr. Kinsey’s intentions without looking like a fool for the rest of his life? Bitter, he cupped Marigold’s head to his chest and buried his long nose in her hair. She smelt of baby powder and it soothed him. 

“Would you be shocked if I told you that they were receptive? Concerned? That they wanted to help?” 

Thomas wouldn’t be shocked in the slightest. Dr. Kinsey wasn’t the first person to lie to him in such a way. 

“You’re lying.” Thomas said bitterly. 

“I’m not.” Dr. Kinsey reached out and touched Thomas’ shoulder. He jumped a little, unnerved, but Dr. Kinsey did not drop his hand from Thomas’ shoulder. “I was even able to broach the subject of your sexual inversion with Mr. Carson.” 

“My what?” Thomas had never heard of such a term before, but he didn’t like the sound of it. He turned, Dr. Kinsey’s hand still upon his shoulder as he stared unsure at the man. 

“Your sexual inversion.” Dr. Kinsey repeated. He offered Thomas a small but sincere smile. “Your homosexual inclination.” 

It felt like ice was dripping down his spine. Thomas took a step back, clutching Marigold to his breast like a shield. 

“…You…” Thomas swallowed, “You think I’m a-“ But he couldn’t finish his sentence for fear. Perhaps if he played it off with naivety he could escape an asylum yet.

“I know.” Dr. Kinsey corrected, “I’ve always known. Dr. Clarkson told me.” 

Thomas shuddered, petrified for what might come next. But instead of calling for a bobby or declaring him mentally unsound, Dr. Kinsey changed the subject with a small smile.

“Tell me Thomas, did your father treat you well?” 

Thomas grimaced, continuing to stroke Marigold’s many auburn curls. The fact the of the matter was that Thomas’ father had not treated him well. Indeed, he’d treated Thomas like shit. 

He shook his head, unwilling to say much more. He was still too afraid. 

“Was he cruel to you?” Dr. Kinsey asked. 

_“You stand on that chair and you stay there. All day.” his father snapped, forcing Thomas to stay stock still upon a kitchen chair that he’d drug into the middle of the living room floor. “You make a noise and I’ll take my belt to you. The rest of you, don’t talk to him!” He pointed to each of his children in warning, all of whom watched with wary eyes, “I’ll show you to make a mockery of this family.”_

Thomas nodded. 

“Did he yell at you? Even when it was unnecessary to do so?” 

_“You’re not even a Barrow are you-“ Thomas desperately polished the brass watch, trying to get out the smudge, “You’re a bloody waste of space!”_

Thomas nodded. 

“Did he belittle you? Make you feel small? For his own pleasure?” 

Thomas didn’t want to talk about this anymore. He turned away, causing Dr. Kinsey’s hand to slip from his shoulder as he rocked Marigold to sleep. She was already passed out, the doll close to slipping from her grip.Thomas took it from her and placed the doll in her crib, making to bend over and put Marigold down there with her. She fussed a bit, disgruntled at being jostled. Thomas pulled her blanket over her legs, doing his best to ignore Dr. Kinsey who stood at his shoulder. 

“Did he strike you?” Thomas refused to answer, fifteen years under the tyrannical reign of his father’s leather belt keeping him silent, “Did he hit you with the intent to cause pain for pain’s sake alone?” 

Thomas turned away, checking first on George (who was still fast asleep) then Sybbie (who was dripping in sweat). He turned down Sybbie’s covers, fanning her to give her some air. For some reason she seemed to sweat more in her sleep than George or Marigold. He wondered why that was. 

“It is my belief that you seek love from other men because you never found it from your father.” 

That got a reaction out of him. Thomas turned about, irritated, and came face to face with Dr. Kinsey who was just over his shoulder. 

“What?” Thomas demanded, disgruntled. Boy what a test this was. Thomas wanted to shout every word, but couldn’t do so in front of sleeping children. 

“I believe that, had your father loved you, you would have been quite normal and not inclined to have sexually inverse thoughts.” Dr. Kinsey explained, with the most pleasant of expressions as if he wasn’t actually referring to Thomas’ lewd desire to have sex with other men, “You seek love from men like Mr. Bates and Mr. Carson, but when you don’t fine it, it only makes the inversion worse… Does that make any sense?” 

No. It didn’t make any sense at all. 

Thomas could remember being very young, before his father had started pinning him as the family scape goat. He’d been no more than four or five at most, and had found himself quite attracted to a farmer that lived down the road. Thomas had often sat on the fence bordering their properties and watched as the farmer baled hay, dripping with sweat… muscles rolling beneath the hot Stockport sun. Thomas could remember thinking just how beautiful the man was. How utterly perfect, the model specimen. Surely if what Dr. Kinsey was saying were accurate, he’d have only started to take to men after being shunned by his father, which hadn’t started until Thomas was about six or seven. 

“I don’t see how my… tendencies…” Thomas muttered, “Have anything to do with that.” 

“Do you not feel like, if Mr. Carson or Mr. Bates were to be kind to you and support you, that you might be inclined to look for affection elsewhere?” 

“You mean…” Thomas didn’t want any gray area between them on this subject, not when he’d already shoved a needle full of unsterilized saline into his ass, “S-s-step out with a g-girl.” He didn’t know why the more words made him trip up. Dr. Kinsey smiled sympathetically. 

“Correct.” 

“I…” Thomas didn’t know what to say to this. A doctor had never asked him such questions before, “I like… men.” Thomas mumbled softly, “I always have. Even before my family abandoned me… I liked men. So I don’t see how the two can be connected.” 

“I see.” Dr. Kinsey looked slightly disappointed. His frown didn’t last for long as he clapped Thomas on the shoulder again, “That’s alright, Thomas. It’s not your fault. It’s an inversion not a damnation. It shouldn’t be met with cruelty. Many great men have been sexually inverted. The fact of the matter is that homosexuality, while abnormal, is not damning. I know there’s a large misconception floating around stating that homosexuality leads to the fires of hell, but I’ll proclaim your innocence before God if I must.” 

“You might have to.” Thomas whispered, unsure of what awaited him in the other life besides an icy bathtub and the ghost of a lover. 

“Then I’ll see you at the pearly gates. It’s an appointment” Dr. Kinsey joked. Thomas didn’t quite know how to reply to that. “Thomas… you know I cannot stay.” Dr. Kinsey frowned a little, looking as if he’d much rather keep up with a few more sessions. Thomas honestly didn’t know how to feel about the man leaving. On one hand he asked horrifically difficult questions and pestered him endlessly. On the other he was one of the very few who greeted Thomas’ depressed miasma with optimism and understanding. Never before had someone paid such attention to him. “But I’m going to give you my address, and my telephone number. I want you to call me every day if you must, at any time, and we can discuss anything you like.” 

He reached into his breast pocket and offered Thomas his calling card. Thomas accepted it, reading: 

_Dr. Robert Kinsey_  
 _69 Lancaster St._   
_London, SE1_

_44 20 7998 1707_

Thomas pocketed the card, wondering if he might ever have reason to call on Dr. Kinsey. 

“Tonight will be my last night with you.” Dr. Kinsey said, “I want to share it downstairs with you…. I’ve brought up a maid to take over with the children. Shall we?” 

 

The maid didn’t look to pleased to be saddled once again with the children particularly when they each needed to be fed, bathed, changed, and put back to bed. Thomas likewise wasn’t pleased to leave the children, so they both wore sullen expressions as they passed in the doorway and traded places. Thomas went downstairs with Dr. Kinsey, who once again seemed quite happy not to say a word in amicable silence. As they hit the ground level the smell of pot pie and gravy made Thomas salivate. The sound of raucous laughter echoed from the servant’s hall which was packed with people. It seemed Moseley was joining them for dinner again tonight. Yet when Thomas appeared in the doorway, the laughter suddenly stopped, with several maids jamming fingers in their mouths to keep from making noise as Andy looked the other way entirely and coughed hurriedly into his shoulder. Dr. Kinsey waved to the Bates and Baxter, each of whom nodded their head back. Thomas pulled up a chair for Dr. Kinsey so that once again Thomas was squished between him and Ms. Baxter. Each of them stood behind their chairs, waiting for Mr. Carson, yet in the ticking silence that followed the butler’s arrival people started to laugh again. One maid in particular looked ready to cry with mirth. 

Thomas had a feeling he knew what they were laughing about. Dr. Kinsey just wore a gentle smile, completely at ease. 

Mr. Carson entered with Mrs. Hughes, both their eyes narrowing distastefully at the sound of snickering in the servant’s hall. Mr Carson pulled out his chair, chest puffed up with pride. 

“That’s quite enough of that.” Mr. Carson warned, “Remember yourselves.” 

He sat, and everyone else sat with him. Daisy entered, bringing with her a massive pot pie that steamed in its ceramic pot. She sat it before Mr. Carson, followed in by Gertie who brought out turnips, ham, and an oven braised savoy cabbage. As everyone began to load up their plates, Mr. Moseley (who sat on Ms. Baxter’s other side), leaned over and said, “See you’ve got a change in uniform, Mr. Barrow. Or rather, Thomas now I suppose.” 

Thomas blinked. 

Did Moseley just speak to him? 

He looked about, unsure of what favor he’d fallen into for other people to start acknowledging him at the table. But even as he opened his mouth to comment on the fact that he was wearing Moseley’s old footman uniform, Andy blurted out from down at the other end of the table, “Gonna have another change soon.” 

More snickering broke out, mostly from the maids. Daisy, snorted too even as she poured tea, pausing for a moment to regain her composure as Mrs. Hughes snapped, “That’s quite enough.” to make them all fall silent. 

Thomas bristled, saying nothing as he clenched his fingers into tight fists. So it seemed the others found his new role amusing. Beside him, Dr. Kinsey watched; he still wasn’t pessimistic, but he seemed aware that a fight could break out and kept his eyes locked on Thomas’ face for any twitch of movement. Was this some sort of test to see how much Thomas could take without breaking? 

For a moment there was absolute silence at the table as everyone ate. The only sound came from the clinking of cutlery upon ceramic until one of the younger maids sniggered, “You can borrow my apron.” 

Everyone spluttered into laughter again, even Mr. Moseley and Anna. Thomas felt his cheeks begin to heat up, flushing wide blood as he heart pounded. Beside him Dr. Kinsey kept absolutely silent. 

“Enough, Amelia!” Mrs. Hughes snapped, now on the verge of being angry. She glared at the maid till all the sniggering died into silence and they returned to their meal. She bit into her pot pie with more venom than was strictly required, taking her time to chew as she watched Thomas carefully from across the table. 

“… Still no word from the police?” Baxter asked softly, turning in her seat to offer Thomas a plate full of sliced ham. He took a bit, knowing she was attempting to get him to eat despite the bullying from down at the other end of the table. 

“Give it time.” Thomas consoled her. Baxter frowned, setting the plate back down. “Somethings bound to turn up.” 

“Police?” Dr. Kinsey asked, curious. 

“The prior nanny stole-“ Thomas began, but Mr. Carson coughed tersely causing Thomas to freeze up. The knowledge that this man had been encroached upon by Dr. Kinsey made his stomach do flip flops. God only knows what Carson thought of him now. 

“We’ll have no more talk about that.” Carson warned Thomas, though his voice certainly lacked the bite it used to possess, “Dr. Kinsey is not a member of staff, Thomas. Remember the rules we live by.” 

Thomas nodded, made meek by Carson’s words. In an attempt to keep peace at the table, he used the side of his fork to cut into his ham and took a small bite. It was incredibly salty in his mouth. 

“I’m sorry,” Dr. Kinsey apologized to Carson, “I didn’t mean to get anyone in trouble.” 

“It’s not a problem, Doctor.” Mr. Carson waved it off with a small flick of the wrist, “but I still don’t want it discussed. It’s a matter for our family alone.” 

“I completely understand, Mr. Carson.” Dr. Kinsey said, which kept the peace right up until Moseley spluttered into laughter again so that Mrs. Hughes set down her fork and knife with a loud ‘harrumph’. 

“i can’t imagine you changing nappies.” Moseley said.   
And just like that, the whole table burst into laughter. 

“Or feeding them bottles!” Amelia the maid cackled. 

“Or singing them to sleep, can you imagine?” Andy demanded of the others. By this point they were close to howling, with even Anna near tears. Daisy had to set her teapot down entirely in order to laugh into her hands. 

Mrs. Hughes had had enough. “That’s quite enough!” She shouted. 

At once, everyone shut up to the point where you might be able to hear a button hit the floor should one pop free. Mrs. Hughes’ cheeks were scarlet with anger, her eyes wide and livid, “Mr. Barrow has taken on a very difficult task to aid the family in their time of need. We ought to look at it as the proper example of good servitude and say no more of it, particularly when he cares so very much for the children- who I’ll remind you are your future employers!” She added with a warning finger pointed at each ruddy face. 

The amusement died away, though Thomas’ cheeks and neck were still quite hot. He suddenly felt nauseas and did not make to eat, setting his fork aside to stare at his barely touched plate with disgust. Despite Mrs. Hughes and Ms. Baxter backing his corner, Thomas still felt utterly mocked. He wanted to run upstairs and hide there- to never speak to any of the servant’s again and instead fill his days with the children as best he could. 

Beside him, Dr. Kinsey remained absolutely silent, listening intently. 

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Hughes.” Anna spoke up at once, the humor still evident in he voice, “We mean no offense. I know Thomas will be a very good nanny- I just-“ She had to cough down a laugh, “It just makes a funny picture!” 

“None of us are insulting you, Thomas!” Andy added. Thomas refused to meet his eyes, glaring at the wall over Mrs. Hughes shoulder instead, “It’s just funny to imagine. A cigarette in one hand and a baby bottle in the other.” 

“Do you know what I find funny?” Carson demanded from the head of the table, causing everyone to shut up fast lest they receive their packing notice, “Everyone with a doubled work load.” 

“… In all seriousness.” Anna said, her voice quite soft now. She leaned over to stare at Thomas; he did not meet her eyes, “If you need anything, just ask.” 

What he needed was to leave this ruddy table. Thomas made to rise, ready to take his meal upstairs and dismiss the maid watching the children, but Dr. Kinsey’s hand was suddenly upon his arm urging him back into his seat. He leaned close so that his mouth was almost pressed to Thomas’ ear, murmuring, “Tell them they’re hurting your feelings if they are. Tell them right now. Make it clear that they’re upsetting you.” 

Thomas turned so that Dr. Kinsey had to lean back before their noses brushed. “What do I say?” Thomas muttered under his breath. 

“The truth.” Dr. Kinsey whispered, “See what happens.” 

But that was impossible. Saying the truth would lead to him getting laughed or yelled at. His childhood had taught him that. He stuttered, tongue suddenly swollen in his mouth as he looked from Dr. Kinsey to Mr. Carson, to Mrs. Hughes, to Baxter- how could he convey-? 

“Are you afraid of rejection?” Dr. Kinsey whispered in his ear. Unable to avoid the truth, Thomas nodded, “Give them the benefit of the doubt.” Dr. Kinsey soothed, “Ms. Baxter and I are both here if they do. As is Mrs. Hughes. You have our support. Be firm, but not unkind. You do not have to hold a sword to hold attention.” 

Frightened out of his wits, Thomas sat completely silent with his plate untouched. He didn’t know what to say. 

He suddenly found himself wanting to taste the pork again, but knew that as long as he was silent he wouldn’t able to eat. He’d be too nauseas. Too afraid. 

Thomas took a shuddering breath, eyes locked on his plate. When he spoke, it was with a hushed tone so that ears had to strain to make out his words, “I don’t consider it an insult to care for children.” 

Everyone was looking at him. 

“I’d happily wear an apron if it meant giving them the attention and love they deserve… So… if you find it funny that I’m caring for the children, you can laugh at me but it won’t hurt my feelings. Because… I don’t consider it a demotion. I consider it an honor.” 

He brought up his fork again and took another bit of the salted ham. Across the table from him, Mrs. Hughes looked deeply pleased, “Well said,” she praised. 

Dr. Kinsey leaned into Thomas’ ear again: “Remember if they hurt your feelings you need to voice it.” 

“And…” Thomas bit his inner cheek, cursing himself even as he spoke, “And I’d never smoke around the children, and it… hurts that you’d insist I would.” 

_Christ you sound like a big girl’s blouse_. Thomas’ brain hissed at him. He stuffed his mouth full of food, wishing he’d never spoken at all. 

“I’m sorry.” Andy spoke up, frank and yet still amused, “I don’t think you’d actually smoke around the children; I just never pictured you as a nanny is all.” 

“You haven’t actually smoked in weeks,” Anna sounded quite surprised, “Why is that?” 

That was a very good question. The fact of the matter was, since his suicide attempts Thomas hadn’t touched a cigarette. He still had a half-smoked pack in his night dresser upstairs. Before, he’d needed to smoke at least five times a day. Now…? 

“I don’t know.” He admitted, unsure. 

“Well thank god for it.” Snorted a maid down at the far end of the table. Thomas glared at her, wishing he could tell her to can it, “It’s going to kill you, you know.” She added warningly, “Cigarettes are bad for your lungs.” 

Thomas opened his mouth, ready to fire off a warning shot, but there was Dr. Kinsey in his ear whispering rapidly, “I want you to think through every word you say before you say it Thomas. Be aware. Like your building a house. How would you go about it… quickly or with care?” 

He suddenly realized to say something rude at the table would garner him irritation from the others, just as Mrs. Hughes had been angered by people laughing at Thomas. Grateful Dr. Kinsey had stopped him, Thomas chewed thoughtfully on a piece of ham before admitting the bitter truth, “I never thought about it.” 

“You won’t be the only man in trouble.” Bates spoke up, commanding automatic respect as everyone else fell silent to listen to him speak. Thomas’ heart jumped again when he considered that Dr. Kinsey had urged Bates to ‘love’ him, or whatever else, “His lordship smokes cigars, and I’ve certainly smoked my fair share of cigarettes.” 

“I think we should all stop smoking.” Anna spoke up, and others around the table murmured in agreement and nodded their heads. 

But something else was still gnawing at Thomas’ insides, threatening to eat him alive. Dr. Kinsey had urged for him to be honest, to tell them if they’d hurt his feelings. 

So why not? 

“… And…” Thomas spoke up a little louder this time, his heart bleating irritably, “Is it such a bad thing that… I might sing them to sleep. If it helped them sleep?” 

Everyone fell silent again, an odd stiff tension laden with guilt causing the others to grow remiss. 

“I’d rather be helpful even if it meant I got laughed at.” Thomas mumbled, then returned to his food. 

“Of course it’s not a bad thing.” Mrs. Hughes consoled him at once, catching his eyes across the table and giving him a watery smile, “And we’ll have no more laughing about it.” 

Thomas took a bite, then another bite, and suddenly he was eating at regular speed with everyone else at the table. He wasn’t blind to those around him, noting that Dr. Kinsey shared a look of appreciation with Mrs. Hughes who smiled across her teacup. Mr. Carson was as smug as ever, watching Thomas eat. 

 

As soon as dinner was over, Thomas went right back upstairs to relieve the maid. To his dismay he found that despite the late hour the children were still up, and barely dressed for bed. He set everything to rights immediately, dressing each of them properly and brushing their hair before tucking them into bed and turning off the lights. In minutes they were all asleep, each of them exhausted from a heady day. Thomas used the time given to him to check over the nursery once again, cleaning up the bathroom and making sure the hamper was empty for the following day. Content, he sat alone in the gloom, rocking slowly in his chair while he watched George and Sybbie sleep. The real trouble was Marigold, who being a toddler never did anything the easy way. She grumbled and tossed in her sleep, threatening to wake the others till Thomas rose and stood over her crib, rubbing her tummy. She shut her eyes, sucking thoughtfully on a pacifier until she moved no more and was completely conked out. He only wish he could sleep half as good. 

A soft timid knock at the door of the nursery caught his attention, and he moved silently across the room to carefully open the door. To his surprise, Anna was on the other side, giving him a small but meaningful smile as she poked her head into the nursery to look around. 

“… I wanted to apologize for earlier tonight.” she whispered, “It was unkind to laugh, even if the image of you in an apron is a bit silly.” 

Thomas did not reply, looking down at the carpet beneath his feet. 

“Won’t you come downstairs and have a cup of tea before bed?” Anna asked. “Dr. Kinsey wants to say goodnight to you.” 

This was the real risk: leaving the children. As much as Thomas could use a cup of tea, he didn’t want to be out of ear shot. His only solution was to step across the nursery and gently rouse Sybbie who groaned a little upon her pillow and blearily open her eyes. 

“Sybbie… Sybbie, M’darling.” Thomas whispered. Sybbie opened her eyes more clearly, rubbing at them with her pudgy fists. 

“Mm?” She mumbled softly. Anna watched entranced from the doorway. 

“Sybbie, I’m going to fetch a cup ‘a tea.” Thomas whispered, “If you need me, you pull this bell on the wall.” Thomas pointed to the carpeted bell rung between Sybbie and George’s bed, a staple to every room here at the abbey. “Alright? I’ll be back in a pinch.” 

“Mmm” Sybbie closed her eyes, already falling asleep again. Affection blossomed in Thomas’ chest, and he leaned over to gently kiss her forehead. Sybbie was already beginning to snore as he rose up, heading out of the nursery room and taking Anna with him. He closed the door careful not to make a sound, and headed for the green baize door on the main floor with Anna following swiftly behind him. 

“It’s nice to see you so affectionate.” She praised, but Thomas had no idea what to say back to her. They headed down the servant’s stairs, side by side, and entered the ground floor to find the servant’s hall, once again, mildly packed. Dinner was done and dusted, with everyone now clustered about their respective chairs reading books or working on a card game. Andy sat by the piano attempting to spell out a tune and Mr. Bates read a paper by the fire. The bastard had stolen Thomas’ favorite chair, forcing him to sit down once again between Dr. Kinsey and Ms. Baxter both of whom were having a cup of tea. Mr. Moseley sat on Baxter’s other side, clearly trying to woo her though she either wasn’t noticing or wasn’t interested. It was difficult to tell with English women. 

“Are the children down?” Baxter asked Thomas, offering him a cup of tea. 

“Like little angels.” Anna said, taking the rocking chair across from Bates. He smiled pleasantly at his wife. 

“Mrs. Hughes gave us a right scolding when you left.” Andy admitted, sounding just slightly guilty from the piano, “I thought our ears were going to catch on fire.” 

“It was no less than you deserved.” Baxter warned with a small smile. 

“I didn’t mean offense by it!” Andy drew his hands up defensively. 

“Still.” Anna agreed, “We shouldn’t have laughed.” 

They all took a moment to sip on their tea, with Thomas added honey and lemon to his own. From behind, the booming voice of Mrs. Patmore caught them off guard as she entered the hall and set down a tray of chopped apples upon the table for others to snack on. 

“Look who it is.” She joked darkly, “the wet nurse.” 

Thomas sighed haggardly, wishing he could go five minutes downstairs without someone poking at him, “Please don’t call me that.” He muttered bitterly. 

“Oh stop looking at me like a soggy biscuit.” She chastised, waving a hand at him, “I were only poking fun.” 

Thomas took a chopped apple and bit into it, irritably. 

“Well?” Mrs. Patmore demanded at the sudden silence, “Are you enjoying your new role?” 

With a mouth full of apple, Thomas could only nod, so he did so and took another sip of tea. Mrs. Patmore rolled here eyes, heading back into the kitchen. “If I get a word out of you, it’ll be from your lips to god’s ears, not mine.” 

“If you’re not talking about ghosts you’re not talking at all.” Bates mused darkly from the fire, pausing with his paper to watch Thomas warily. Thomas did not meet his eyes, still hotly aware that Dr. Kinsey and Bates had had a discussion behind his back. “Does Dr. Kinsey know you’re obsessed with the dead?” 

“What’s this?” Dr. Kinsey asked, setting down his teacup to better pay attention to the conversation around him. Thomas suddenly wanted to flee the hall from embarrassment. 

“Thomas has an obsession with the dead.” Bates sneered, his voice only slightly snide, “He keeps going on about the ouija board in the kitchen, or he did before he hit his head.” 

Thomas half expected to be chastised by Dr. Kinsey, but instead Dr. Kinsey broke out into a smile and exclaimed, “Ouija boards! What fun, I haven’t played with one in years.” 

“Do you not think it strange?” Bates asked, slightly taken aback by Dr. Kinsey’s pleasant attitude. 

“I think the word is full of ‘strange’ things, don’t you?” Dr. Kinsey offered to the room at large. Most everyone was smiling now, “Best just roll with the punches or you’ll get smacked in the nose.” 

The others laughed, amused. 

“Why do you want to use the ouija board?” Dr. Kinsey asked, but Thomas looked away horribly embarrassed. There was no way in hell that he was admitting to the actual reason in a room full of people who’d already laughed at him. 

“I’d like to use it to talk to my mother.” Dr. Kinsey offered, no doubt attempting to get Thomas to open up by using himself as an example, “She’s been dead for many years, I think it’d be nice to hear her say ‘I love you’ once more.” 

This started off a whole group discussion on the subject of Ouija boards and whether they were a good idea: 

“I won’t touch them.” Bates warned, shaking his head as he looked back at his paper and turned a page, “I might invoke the fury of my ex wife.” 

Anna made an irritable noise beneath her breath, clearly not a fan of the late Vera Bates. 

Dr. Kinsey rapt his knuckles against the wood of the servant’s hall table, causing everyone to look around as he said, “For her spirit to keep it away.” 

At this, both Bates and Anna leaned in their chairs to knock on the wood of the servant’s table, chuckling to themselves as they relaxed again. 

“Do you have anyone you’d like to contact, Ms. Baxter?” Dr. Kinsey asked curious. Baxter shook her head with a small smile. 

“I confess I don’t.” 

“Mr. Moseley?” 

“Oh no.” Moseley shook his head in his humble little way, taking another sip of tea as he said, “I don’t approve, I think it puts out bad energy.” 

“Quite possible.” Dr. Kinsey appeased, before finally turning back to Thomas. 

“Thomas?” 

Thomas sighed, drumming his fingers upon the table as he considered his words. Wasn’t that what Dr. Kinsey had told him to do? To be outright rude would be met with rejection but the truth was also out. So what could be done? 

“I can’t say.” Thomas finally admitted. 

“Why not?” Dr. Kinsey asked. 

“S’not appropriate.” Thomas said, for this was the bitter truth of the world in which they lived. Dr. Kinsey seemed to realize they were once again alluding to Thomas’ sexual inversion (whatever the hell that meant), and nodded gravely as he offered. “So, someone you loved?” 

Thomas tensed. An odd silence filled the air of the servant’s hall, unbroken as Thomas chewed on his tongue and tried to find the words. 

“I’m sorry someone you loved died.” Dr. Kinsey apologized, “Why not get the board out, and see if we can have a seance? It’ll be a good send off.” 

Thomas looked at him, amazed at how open and receptive Dr. Kinsey could be. It seemed the idea of ‘social norms’ had absolutely no effect on him but still didn’t keep him from being a gentleman in the eyes of Carson, Bates, and Lord Grantham. Here was the kind of man Thomas wanted to be. 

“Go on,” Dr. Kinsey urged bravely, “What’s the harm?” 

“Carson won’t approve,” Thomas warned. 

“Carson is far too busy to take time to fuss over a board game.” 

“You don’t know Mr. Carson then.” Anna joked from her arm chair. 

“Go on Thomas.” Dr. Kinsey nudged him playfully in the arm, “Go get the board. Let’s have some fun.” 

Spurned on, suddenly feeling hopeful again, Thomas rose from his seat and at once went into the kitchen to find Mrs. Patmore, Daisy, and Gertie washing up. The ouija board was still tucked beneath the empty egg crates. He fetched it, pulling it free so that Mrs. Patmore barked, “Oh don’t start with that.” 

He made to take it away, and she shouted after him, “Fine! See what good it does you!” 

“Are you going to use the ouija board?” Daisy asked, poking her head out of the kitchen. Thomas nodded, “Can I go with you? I’ve always been curious about it.” 

The pair of them went into the servant’s hall, leaving Mrs. Patmore and her shouting behind. Thomas set down the box upon the table, lifting the lid and putting the board in the center of the table so that everyone could see it along with the planchette. The eerie text, swirled and burned into the wood along with the sun, moon, alphabet and numbers, “hello” and “goodbye”… it was all very ominous. Any moment now Thomas was certain Mrs. Hughes or Mr. Carson was going to come strolling around the corner and start screaming. It gave the atmosphere a nervous edge as Daisy grabbed candles from the cupboards and set them on odd counters for spooky lighting. 

“We can set a mood.” Daisy eagerly told her curious spectators. 

“What are you doing?” Anna asked, getting out of her chair to have a better look. 

“It helps with the spirits.” Daisy said, taking out a matchbox and beginning to light each candle at a time. 

“How?” 

Daisy lit two more candles and flicked off the lights. They were suddenly plunged into a gloom, a scene right out of their youths when electricity had been a thing of science fiction and each night gave birth to candles. 

“I dunno,” Daisy admitted, pocketing the matchbox, “It just does.” 

“I’v always wanted to try one.” Andy admitted, coming around the table to take a chair before the ouija board. Daisy sat next to him, pulling out her seat. 

“Then why didn’t you?” She asked. Andy flushed, slightly embarrassed. 

“Couldn’t make sense of the letters.” He admitted. 

“But you can make sense of them now.” Daisy said. Her confidence made Andy beam. 

“Put us all in the dark, why don’t you.” Bates grumbled by the fire, now no longer able to read the paper adequately. He put it aside, crossing his arms over his chest. Anna sat down across from Daisy, staring at the ouija board curious. 

“We have candles.” Daisy said in defense. 

Dr. Kinsey, Ms. Baxter, and Mr. Moseley all sat around the far end of the table, watching as Thomas sat next to Anna and sat the planchette atop the board. In an unexpected move, Bates rose from his armchair to take the chair next to Thomas, leaning heavily upon his elbow so as to get a good look at the board. Thomas refused to look at him for fear of what he might find.   
“If you invoke my ex wife, I’m tossing the board in the fire.” Bates warned. Anna and Dr. Kinsey automatically rapped their knuckles upon the wood of the table, causing Bates to snort. Dr. Kinsey and Ms. Baxter shifted, moving down the table so that they could take the far edge rounding their party to a group of seven. Only Mr. Moseley did not join, keeping his original chair at the far end of the table and looking at the board as if it were a snake that might bite. 

“How do we use it?” Daisy, as if thinking there was an ‘on’ switch they ought to press. 

She would learn. 

“First we have to decide who wants to ask the questions.” Thomas said. Everyone looked about the table, each pair of eyes landing on the face next to them till Daisy said, “You’re the one who’s been wanting to. You ask.” 

“You’d probably ask better questions anyway.” Andy added. The others nodded, agreeing with this sentiment. Thomas felt a small flutter of pride in his chest. 

“Fine then.” Thomas said, trying as hard as he could to suppress the smile daring to twitch upon his lips. 

_Any moment now, Edward!_ Thomas thought, his heart fluttering in his breast. 

“We all touch the planchette with one finger.” Thomas said. Seven arms reached out, from Doctor to kitchen maid and seven fingers touched the planchette. “Very lightly.” Thomas instructed, “We have to warm it up.” 

“How?” Daisy asked, breathless. 

“We move it gently in a circle around the board seven times.” Thomas said, “Counter clockwise. One rotation for each of us.” 

The planchette scraped softly around the board as they shifted seven times. When they finished the planchette was dead center in the middle of the board. A dead silence fell over the table, different than anything the servant’s hall had ever felt since the death of Sybil Crawley. There wasn’t a giggle to be heard, not even a shift upon a chair. 

Thomas had known this kind of silence before. He’d known it when the bath water had turned cold. 

“Now what?” Daisy whispered. Had the table not been dead silent, she would have gone unheard for how softly she spoke. 

“…Now we start.” Thomas whispered back. 

He drew a breath, centering himself, and spoke aloud to the air, “Is anyone there?” His normal volume was unnerving, almost a shout in the stillness. 

For a long time, the seven of them sat there, each more tense than the next. Down at the end of the table, Thomas could practically hear Moseley sweating. Bates was the most skeptical, the first to speak after what felt like an hour of silence. 

“Apparently not.” He muttered. 

“I swore I had it move with me once.” Anna whispered. Bates looked round at his wife, “On the night Mr. Matthew proposed to Lady Mary. Do you remember, Daisy?” 

“I do,” She said, eyes wide as saucers, “It was terrifying.” 

Thomas never took his eyes off the planchette, never wavered in his concentration, and it was with greatest elation of the spirit that he felt the planchette begin to twitch beneath his finger. 

_Yes, Edward_ , Thomas praised internally, _Yes speak to me. I’m here_. 

Each member of their table watched amazed as the planchette began to move towards the alphabet. Thomas let out a shaky breath, audible as a normal voice around the table. 

_Oh Edward_ , Thomas thought in somber dismay. 

“That is terrifying.” Andy whispered, amazed, “I can feel it moving underneath my finger!” 

“So can I.” Daisy said in a rush. 

“Don’t…” Thomas pleaded, “Don’t distract it please. I’ve waited so long.” 

The others fell silent, the planchette continuing to move at a snail’s pace. 

“I’ll say it again,” Bates warned in the softest voice Thomas had ever heard him utter, “If this is my ex wife the board is going in the fire.” 

Dr. Kinsey and Anna both tapped the table softly with the fingers of their spare hands. 

“This is probably not a good idea.” Moseley spoke up from the far end of the table, his nerves evident in his voice, “This is bad energy in the universe.” 

“Only if you make it that way-“ Daisy murmured. 

“If it gets scary, we’ll stop.” Baxter added, entranced by the moving planchette. 

“Edward-“ Thomas spoke up over all their voices fearful they’d distract the planchette; his voice silenced them all, “Edward is that you?” 

The planchette reached it’s first letter ‘D’.   
Then it moved to the next one. ‘A’. 

Thomas breathed slowly, softly, ‘R’. 

Daisy spoke the letters aloud, entranced, “L-I-N-G” 

“…Darling.” Baxter said the word aloud. Thomas touched his mouth with his free hand, amazed at the connection he now had. The line to Edward that could not be broken. Edward wanted the board brought out, wanted to speak with Thomas again. Now here they were, practically pressed cheek to cheek between the fabric of time and still Edward spoke the fabled word: “Darling”. 

How precious that word was to Thomas. 

“Clearly not your ex wife.” Dr. Kinsey murmured from the end of the table. 

“Clearly.” Bates agreed, sounding oddly content with that knowledge. In accordance with the laws of fate, each man and woman at the table gently rapt their knuckles upon the wood lest they summon the vile spirit of Vera Bates from hell. 

“Edward-“ Thomas said, ready to profess his undying love to the ouija board and damn all to hell who else heard. But even as he started the lights overhead suddenly flicked on, jarring everyone in the vicinity as Mrs. Hughes’ sharp Scottish brogue cut across the silence. 

“What is going on in here?” 

Everyone looked around to see Mrs. Hughes in the doorway to the hall, absolutely shocked to find everyone from Daisy to Dr. Kinsey bent over a ouija board. She stepped into the fray, agog. 

“Turn off the lights, Mrs. Hughes.” Daisy urged, “We’re talking to spirits-“ 

“Not anymore you’re not.” Mrs. Hughes snapped, pointing to all of them with a sharp finger, “Go to bed at once, all of you! Andrew put out those lights-“ 

Everyone rose, fingers leaving the planchette fast- Thomas panicked, knowing the clear danger of leaving a ouija board open to interpretation in the folds of darkness that encompassed the earth. How could he deny when he’d bloody well bathed in it for christ’s sake? 

“Don’t!” Thomas barked, causing everyone at the table to jump shock. Even Mrs. Hughes and Mr. Moseley were taken aback, the pair of them touching their throats in fright. 

“Don’t ever…” He swallowed, his own heart hammering as he addressed the room, “Don’t remove your fingers. Keep them there. We have to shut down the session first.” 

“Blimey.” Mr. Moseley griped from the end of the table, “I think I had a heart attack.” 

“Don’t touch anything till it’s over. Not even the candles.” Thomas warned, raking a hand across his hair as he exhaled a shaky breath, “If you leave the board with the door open… you can let awful things through.” He thought of those demonic icy hands that had pulled him away from Edward’s loving arms, “Awful, awful things. I know about this, trust me.” 

“How do you know?” Anna asked, curious and slightly wary. 

“… I’ve seen the place they come from.” Thomas admitted, knowing full well no one at the table would believe him. And yet, as he spoke, no one made to dispute him. Indeed, Anna looked frightened. 

Thomas looked at the board, unsure of how to best address Edward and the room at the same time. Mrs. Hughes was still watching from the doorway after all, “Edward, we’re leaving now. We have to go. I’ll be back.” 

He was ready to bet his life on it. He’d be back if it was the last thing he did. He’d bloody well sleep with the ouija board if that helped. 

The planchette moved one final time, shirking across the wood till it finally rested upon the ‘goodbye’. Everyone stared at it like it was an amputated hand bleeding upon the board. 

“And that, I think, is enough.” Mrs. Hughes said in clipped tones. She snuffed out each candle she passed, grabbing the ouija board and stuffing it unceremoniously back into its box. 

“That was incredible!” Daisy breathed as she rose form her chair, “Can we do it again?” 

“No, Daisy, I don’t think that would be a good idea.” Mrs. Hughes said in a rush. She clutched the boxed board to her side. “It’s better not to mess with these things, and by the by, spirits do not play board games.” In a shocking move Mrs. Hughes reached out and cupped Thomas chin in her hand to lift his face up so that they might stare eye to eye. 

“Thomas…” She warned, him gravely, “I don’t want to see this game out again in the servant’s hall.” Her fingers were warm beneath his chin, her grip strong but not bruising. He pleaded with her through his eyes, but she would not be swayed, “It’s not good for you, do you hear? What you need is sleep and steady living, not this nonsense. So put it away and not another thought about it. Am I clear?” She asked, gripping his chin a little tighter. 

He nodded, unsure of what else he could do. Mrs. Hughes let go of his chin, satisfied, and left the room taking the board with her. Thomas watched her go, swiveling around in his chair to see her disappear around the corner. He deflated, sinking into his chair sorrowfully as the others began to slink away. The Bates tugged on their coats and hats. Andy and Daisy withdrew to talk in a corner amongst themselves. 

Baxter rose from her chair, coming around the table to touch Thomas’ shoulder. “What did you mean?” She asked, “When you said you’d seen the place where ‘they’ come from?” 

“…The bathtub.” was all Thomas could think to say. Baxter squeezed Thomas’ shoulder endearingly. He sighed, rubbing his temple in his hands. He could feel a headache coming, like the marbles in his brain were rolling angrily for being deprived of Edward. 

Dr. Kinsey sat down next to Thomas, slightly overwhelmed by the nights events. He turned so that they might have a private conversation, even with the others murmuring just over their shoulders. Baxter was still behind him, holding his corner. 

“…When you attempted suicide the first time?” Dr. Kinsey asked gently. His voice was barely a murmur. Thomas nodded, swallowing around a lump in his throat. 

“I saw… horrible things.” Thomas whispered, amazed that he was even admitting this to a man who would have been a stranger not even a week ago. Amazed that he was talking aloud about this in a room full of people who didn’t need to hear- 

But maybe… they did. 

“It was black.” Thomas admitted, bleating, “And the water was freezing… and… hands… dragged me under. Away from Edward.” Thomas rubbed at his eyes, exhausted. He suddenly realized just how tired he was. It had to be past midnight by now. 

“I see.” Dr. Kinsey mused, rubbing his jaw in thought, “So you’ve been trying to get into contact with Edward to have the proper conversation you were denied.” Thomas nodded in agreement, “A very honorable intention. But maybe you could have the same conversation at his graveside, and spare Mrs. Hughes the heart attack.” 

But this was folly. Edward’s grave was in a hospital courtyard, clearly viewable to any nurse, doctor, or patient that might walk by. Thomas could hardly admit to be seen there, talking animatedly to a headstone. 

“I can’t do that in public.” Thomas whispered. Dr. Kinsey clapped him gently upon the arm.   
“One day, the world will change.” Dr. Kinsey offered him sympathetically. How many times had Thomas heard that line? What he wanted- need- was change now. “One communication at a time.” He reminded him, “I can honestly say you are the gentlest and kindest of all the patients I’ve ever spoken with.” 

He said this allowed, at normal voice volume, and it brought pause to several others in the room. The Bates halted by the door, Mr. Moseley stopped talking to Daisy and Andy. They each watched while attempting to appear like they weren’t- a signature standard of the staff of Downton Abbey. 

Thomas bowed his head, thrown to a pause. 

“I’d best be off to bed.” Dr. Kinsey mused, rising up from his chair and pushing it back into the table, “I have a train to catch in the morning.” 

Dr. Kinsey squeezed Thomas’ shoulder as he passed, making for the door. He was stopped by the Bates, both of whom were putting on their coats. 

“Thank you for coming.” Bates offered his hand for Dr. Kinsey to shake. 

“It was a pleasure.” Dr. Kinsey said with a smile, “Ms. Baxter-“ Dr. Kinsey shook her head as well as she passed. Thomas watched them all from his chair alone, “Thank you…” Dr. Kinsey said with clear gratitude, “Above all others, thank you.” 

“Please, don’t be a stranger.” Baxter urged. 

“Oh I won’t.” Dr. Kinsey chuckled, “Thomas has my number. And I expect phone calls!” He warned, a finger in the air as he turned on Thomas. 

“Will we see you again?” Anna asked; was it Thomas’ imagination or did she sound slightly hopeful. 

“Hopefully, no.” Dr. Kinsey said. Anna frowned, “But if you do, it’s not the end of the world. Remember, communication is key. Patience, understanding… communication.” 

And with that he was off, heading out of the servant’s hall and up the stairs. Bates buttoned up his coat, cane tapping upon the floor. 

“Shame a doctor had to be the one to say that out loud.” Bates muttered as he turned for the hall. 

“I think we all knew it.” Anna said. 

They were leaving, each departing for bed, and with them went an opportunity to say something Thomas had always wanted to say. 

“Goodnight.” Thomas called out. “Sleep well.” 

They paused, each turning around (even Mr. Moseley) to regard Thomas still in his chair. 

“Goodnight.” Baxter smiled sweetly, leaving for the stairs. 

“Goodnight, Thomas.” Anna said, heading down the hall for the back door. 

Mr. Moseley nodded his head, not saying goodnight but not being rude. He too left for the back door. 

Mr. Bates, however, had something to say: “He’s right, you know.” 

Thomas looked down at the table, twiddling his thumbs. 

“I know.” Thomas mumbled to the wood. 

Bates said nothing for a moment, merely allowing the silence to settle in. It was neither uncomfortable nor homey- a simple stale thing that warned them they still had great ground to cover together. 

“Goodnight, Thomas.” Bates said. He left, cane tapping down the hall. 

Thomas sighed, slumping in his chair. 

 

 

The next morning, Thomas rose and got the children ready for the day. They ate breakfast together, before he dressed them and sent them to prepare for a walk around the estate. For fun, they’d take Tiaa and make a day of it as they traveled around Downton’s corner edges. Yet before Thomas made to fetch the puppy and her leash, he took Marigold and descended the main stairs to see Dr. Kinsey off who’d had a car brought round to take him to the station. Marigold surveyed everything with wide eyes, from the maids that bustled about carrying linens and flowers to Andy, Mrs. Hughes, and Mr. Carson, all of whom were skirting about the dining hall clearing it from breakfast. Thomas waited out front, deliberately saying nothing to the chauffeur as he waited for Dr. Kinsey to come down. Dr. Kinsey eventually appeared, briefcase in hand and hat on head. He greeted the day with a smile, descending the steps of the abbey to extend a hand for Thomas to shake. 

“Well, Thomas.” They shook warmly, “This is goodbye for now.” 

“Yes,” Thomas said, unsure of why he felt so bleak all of a sudden, “Yes it is.” 

“I want you to know.” Dr. Kinsey said, shifting his briefcase in hand, “I have truly enjoyed every conversation we have shared. And that everyone beneath the stairs is your friend. Even if you don’t know it.” He reached up to pluck at one of Marigold’s auburn curls again. 

“Mr. Carson and Mr. Bates both understand what needs to be done. Just give it time.” Dr. Kinsey urged him soothingly, “Time is your friend, Thomas. Let it foster healthy relationships. And as it does, grow with it.” 

Thomas nodded. Dr. Kinsey opened the door to the car, setting his briefcase on the floorboard inside as he clambered in only to lean out and say, “Call me anytime, Thomas. For anything, ever. Yes?” He urged. Thomas nodded again, “Or I might just call you!” He warned in good humor. 

Thomas waved goodbye, offering Marigold’s hand which he tugged gently by the wrist so that she also waved goodbye to Dr. Kinsey like a puppet on a string. Dr. Kinsey shut the door, and was off. Thomas watched him go, chalk white gravel flying in his wake as he slowly slipped out of sight. Marigold blinked peacefully, completely at ease with the situation as she laid her head on Thomas’ shoulder. Thomas turned to kiss her brow as he was wont to do, and slipped back inside the house. 

The day would wait for no man.


	6. Pretty Pink Rash

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom is unsure about this whole 'nanny' business.   
> Sybbie changes his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, here we go guys. We're going to start picking up speed. Introducing the one and only Tom Branson who is actually quite fun to write. I've decided this story might have a sequel. I'm unsure. Bear with me. If you think you'd like a sequel let me know in the comments. Thank you so much to my readers and reviewers. You truly make this experience wonderful for me.

The nanny was a substitute parent, and so, in effect, Thomas became a parent of three overnight. 

He could remember his mother constantly being afraid of sickness in the village or money not coming in on time. He’d thought her paranoid not to mention apathetic. He could count the number of times she’d hugged him (seven), and wished she’d just relaxed more… if only for a moment. Now that he was juggling children, Thomas could completely understand why she’d panicked. 

And to think. She’d had seven! 

From the minute Thomas woke, he was worried. Were the children up? Were they well? Were they bathed? Were they dressed? Were they behaving? Were they hungry? Were they developing well? Did they need air? Did they need medicine? Did they need a new toy? Did they need a tranquilizer? Thomas was so used to juggling fears with Carson that juggling fears with children just felt normal. The only difference now was that he actually cared… and it was fun! 

He woke the children up one at a time, taking the pause to make it personal. Sybbie always got woken with Thomas stroking sweaty hair from her brow. George got kisses. Marigold got toe tugs. Thomas would tickle the bottom of her feet and nip at her toes till she squealed with delight, then pick her up and change her before ringing for breakfast. 

As a valet, Thomas had extensive training with mending clothes. He successfully repaired several pieces in all three wardrobes, then started with the shoes, so that quite suddenly there were more clothes to wear than ever before simply because Thomas had taken five seconds to mend a tear. During afternoon tea for the family, Thomas would bring the children downstairs and let them have an hour with their parents. Edith was often in London working, and so Thomas would sit on the fringes with Marigold giving her ample love and affection while Sybbie and George frolicked on the rug by the fire. When Edith was in town, Marigold always got extra love. It was in these moments that Thomas got to see how the Crawleys worked as parents… and where they took their different stands. 

Mary was hands off, though she hardly lacked in affection. She kept an oddly friendly stance with George, acting more like a playmate than a mother. Thomas started to realize that the reason why George was so desperate for Thomas’ attention was because he wasn’t getting it from Mary. She enjoyed talking to George but didn’t seem to want to discipline him. Indeed she didn’t seem to know how. She often looked at Thomas desperately as if to say ‘What do I do’? 

Edith was the exact opposite, or so Thomas imagined. Before, when Thomas wasn’t a Nanny, he’d noticed that Edith constantly asked questions towards Marigold’s habits and health. She bought her frocks often, not to mention toys, and was eager for long conversations that often left the Nanny desperate to get away. How many times had he heard her say “Please, Lady Edith, I must get on!” 

Thomas hadn’t had the opportunity to talk with Lady Edith as of yet… but he had a feeling that when the occasion arose, he wouldn’t be trying to get away. He understood her love for Marigold. 

He shared it. 

 

Branson was different than the girls. He was curious, and adventurer. He wanted to ask questions, to get answers with Sybbie, and he often took her out into the village to do god knows what. They climbed trees, they skipped rocks, they chased animals and they ate pennylicks. This was all well and good, save for the fact that Branson was often a little too rough, a little too hands on- he could bruise and not mean it. Sybbie needed a cradle, somewhere to rest when she was tired. Branson was a mover and a shaker, he didn’t have time to slow down. It made him skin itch, or so it seemed. So when Sybbie wanted to nap, she couldn’t crawl in Branson’s lap like Marigold could in Edith’s. Instead she napped on a sofa, or in Lord Grantham’s arms… but more often than not Sybbie would come find him, yawn, and put her head on his shoulder. There, in his lap, she’d rest while he mended a frock or a coat. 

He got to where he ate his meals with them too, often going days before he saw any of the other servants besides maids that brought meals and took away washing. At first, he’d only slept in the attics and so he’d often said goodnight to Andy and nothing more. But then, Thomas realized he could just as easily take over the Nanny’s old room off the side of the nursery. It was small but clean, had a nice window and the bed (god help him) was softer. So it was that, one afternoon as the children napped, Thomas moved some of his belongings downstairs to sleep in the nursery with the children… and in a weird way cut out contact with the other servants all together. 

At first, Thomas had felt like leaving Downton would result in a catastrophe. He’d imagined that, having built his life around Downton’s staff, to live without the staff would mean not living at all. Somehow Thomas had construed them as to being integral to life… and honestly at a second glance it was unhealthy. What did they do for him? 

Thomas thought about it often. 

If he had to pick people from the staff that supported him, that he actually thought to be genuine, he’d only get one hand’s worth: Phyllis Baxter, Elsie Hughes, Beryl Patmore, and (oddly enough) Daisy Mason. Why Daisy? He couldn’t rightly say- not after she’d openly declared him a thief and been praised for it as brave. But there was something in the way that Daisy registered the world around her which just screamed ‘genuine’. Naive, yes, but genuine… and it was a breath of fresh air compared to John Bates or Charles Carson… neither of whom Thomas found to be genuine. 

Bates was incredibly jaded; so was he, but he was still a dreamer. It seemed Bates had given up on dreams long ago, and it amazed him how easily society would forgive a criminal but damned him for wanting to better his own life. Carson had, in a phrase, ‘drank the tea’. He believed firmly in the value and good of the class divisions and had never sought to better himself save for the time when he’d dallied in theatre. He delighted in the Crawley’s, praised them endlessly, and was in every way the perfect butler because he wanted to be the perfect butler. As much as Thomas loved their children, he was under no illusions about the Crawley’s or their supposed perfection. Lord Grantham had had an affair with a maid, Lady Grantham had dipped her toe with an art historian, Lady Mary was as mean as a snake when you pressed her, Lady Edith could be incredibly selfish, and Tom Branson was just a pain in the ass. 

More or less. He still wasn’t sold on Branson’s arrogance. Sometimes Thomas had a feeling that Branson was just being Irish, as shitty as that sounded… and Thomas had still not forgiven him for Sybil Crawley’s death. 

One fall afternoon, right before the weather truly began to turn cold, Thomas sat outside the abbey with Marigold, watching her as she toddled about and examined the world around her. Some nanny’s starched and ironed their children like stubbornly stained tablecloths, but the thought made Thomas nauseas. There was a true beauty in watching a child at play, particularly outside when there was so much to explore, and Marigold chatted constantly to herself as she plucked up a fist full of wildflowers. She’d made herself an impressive bouquet by this point, with lady bugs and wood whites fluttering about desperately trying to get that last bit of nectar before she took it all away. George and Sybbie were out with Branson and Talbot, enjoying a day in the village. This left Thomas to be solely occupied on Marigold, which suited Marigold just fine as it gave her the run of the house on Thomas’ back. Shoes off and socks long gone, Marigold frolicked in the grass staining her clothes something dreadful and getting grass in her hair. 

“Da!” She squealed at him when Thomas attacked her belly with tickles. He’d noticed she’d started calling him Da, and though he knew he ought to correct her he found he couldn’t do it. 

Not when it made his marbles stop whispering. 

“What? What?” Thomas teased, blowing raspberries into her throat. She gurgled, thrashing. 

The sound of gravel churning gave Thomas cause for pause, and he pulled up from Marigold to see a stately car coming up the drive. A squint at the backseat confirmed that it was Lady Edith, no doubt home from London and yearning to see her daughter. 

“Your mummy’s home.” Thomas said, though he had a feeling Marigold couldn’t honestly understand. Thomas plucked her up from the grass, sitting her in his lap to point at the gleaming black car. Marigold watched, clutching her bouquet to her chest, “See? We’d better get you cleaned up.” 

Thomas took Marigold back inside through the side, sequestering her upstairs in the nursery and changing her jumper so that she looked presentable again. She found this all to be incredibly boring, and talked to Thomas constantly about her flowers- at least Thomas thought that’s what she was talking about. Had he been prompted to type out a dialogue strain, it would be difficult to do. Something along the lines of “A blah blah shmoo neh ma ma gya-“ that would have made zero sense on paper. 

Washed and proper, Thomas took Marigold downstairs, allowing her to clutch her bouquet to her chest so that as he slowly entered the library and saw Lady Edith speaking warmly with her parents he sat Marigold down and allowed her to run to her mother at her own pace. Lady Edith turned, her pained expression melting to one of delight as she opened her arms to her daughter and scooped her up. 

“Darling!” She cried out, as warm and loving as any mother could hope to be. Marigold offered Lady Edith her bouquet and the gasp it brought forth was one of genuine surprise. “Did you pick these for me?” 

Marigold nodded, grinning impishly. Lady Edith took the bouquet, bringing it to her pug like nose to sniff sweetly. She smiled lovingly at her daughter, “How perfectly marvelous. Thank you, I’ll treasure them forever.” she kissed Marigold sweetly upon the brow, causing Marigold to churn out a gurglish giggle. 

Thomas slunk back out of the library, not wanting to be in the way. 

He returned upstairs to the nursery, taking the free time he’d now been allotted to clean up small messes and sort clean linens that maids had brought up that morning. He changed the sheets on the children’s bed and Marigold’s crib, hanging up jumpers, frocks, coats, trousers, and shirts till their wardrobes were back to being full. Sybbie was getting bigger, growing into clothes that required a more ladylike touch, and so Thomas had taken out two of her newly cleaned dresses to sit down in his rocking chair and mend her buttons. They needed to be moved over about an inch for her to wear her clothes comfortably now. He considered ordering her new clothes; perhaps he could sit her in his lap and let her pick them out herself. It would be a good lesson in cause and effect, not to mention freedom and responsibility. Consumed by his work in the calm silence, Thomas almost did not hear the faint footsteps approaching his hold but paused when the door to the nursery opened to reveal (of all people) Lady Edith holding Marigold upon her hip. 

Thomas rose at once, setting Sybbie’s dress down upon the seat of his rocking chair. It was odd being Nanny. He was not technically one of the staff anymore, or so he’d been told- but he still wasn’t part of the family. He liked in an odd gray divide, but it suited him. Lady Edith smiled hesitantly, allowing the nursery door to close behind her. 

“Is it true what they’re saying?” Lady Edith asked, curious, “That you’re the new nanny?” 

“It is, My Lady.” Thomas said. 

“Goodness, that’s a change.” Lady Edith didn’t sound too entirely put off, confused but pleasant, “Whatever inspired it?” 

“I’ve always enjoyed the children, M’lady.” Thomas explained, “It only seemed fitting that someone who cared for them should be their temporary nanny.” 

“I agree.” Lady Edith said, and she sounded quite genuine, “But… do you have any experience with children?” She took a seat upon Sybbie’s bed, still holding Marigold tight to her bosom. 

“I was one of seven, M’lady.” Thomas explained, “The second oldest child, and the oldest boy… My siblings were my responsibility in youth.” 

“But it’s not too much to handle?” Lady Edith was not one to accept the shallow answer; not where Marigold was concerned, “Three children at once?” 

“The maids and Mrs. Hughes help, M’lady… and the children are very well behaved.” Thomas assured her, “Miss Marigold is an angel.” 

Lady Edith smiled sweetly though it was hardly for Thomas’ benefit. She nuzzled her daughter’s brow, “I’m glad to hear you say that. She means the world to me.” 

“I know, M’lady.” Thomas said before he could stop himself. Lady Edith froze slightly, eyes widening just a hair as she took him in to judge whether or not he was a threat. Thomas smiled, raising his eyebrows in reflex to Lady Edith’s wariness. 

“…Marigolds happen often in my class.” Thomas said, softly. As much as the upper class loathed the idea of sex before marriage or children out of wedlock, it was a natural part of life to the poor. How many women had been forced to watch their own illegitimate children grow up as supposed siblings? 

“Tom said the same.” Lady Edith said, and there was a helpless bleakness in her voice that Thomas did not care for. She stroked Marigold’s hair, glancing up at Thomas with an expression of renewed carefree ambiguity (though Thomas could still see her nerves) to ask, “Has she been sleeping through the night well?” 

Here was the moment where the nanny before him would have urged that she had things to do. That she could not spare a moment to talk. 

Thomas just smiled, “Most of the time, M’lady.” 

They talked for what was surely a solid hour, with Thomas finally giving in and sitting back down in his rocking chair to continue working on Sybbie’s dresses before she returned home with George. Lady Edith wanted to know every detail of Marigold’s day: what she ate for breakfast and refused to touch, what she enjoyed playing with and what she did not, how she liked bath time and how she went down at night- how she slept through the night and if she ever fussed for sickness. Thomas realized that while Lady Mary trusted him on most matters, Lady Edith wanted a hand in everything. It wasn’t from a lack of trust in Thomas either- it was simply her nature as a parent to be involved and to care for her daughter as best she could. Who was he to deny her? 

Later on that afternoon before the children returned home from the village, Thomas took half an hour to call Dr. Kinsey on Mr. Carson’s telephone in his office. This was something of a on-and-off-again habit of his, to call Dr. Kinsey in times of worry or question. Dr. Kinsey wanted to make it a weekly thing, and urged Thomas each time they spoke to consider the idea. 

But Thomas didn’t have time… at least that was what he told Dr. Kinsey. Something nagged at him in the back of his head that he wasn’t telling the full truth; he tried not to think about it. 

_“What an interesting idea.”_ Dr. Kinsey mused at Thomas’ insistence that he simply ignore the staff and not interact with them at all. 

“Do you think it’s a poor one?” Thomas asked. 

_“I think it’s natural to want to cut out negativity in your life. After all, you are exhausted emotionally. You need to be built with love, not bitter intolerance. But I want you to consider our hopes for open communication. It’s hard to communicate when someone isn’t around.”_

Thomas pursed his lips, studying the beds of his fingernails with care. 

_“Have you had any verbal altercations lately?”_

“No.” 

_“Have you had any thoughts… about death?”_

“Oh no.” Thomas huffed, “I’ve been so busy with the children-“ 

_“Really?”_ Dr. Kinsey asked, pleasantly surprised, _“But… weren’t you busy before with other work?”_

This was, once again, a very good point. Thomas pursed his lips, shifting upon his chair. 

“Sort of.” Thomas said softly, wondering what on earth had truly changed. The answer, pure and simple was: the children. As the Nanny he was now surrounded by the children, not but Carson and Bates. 

_“So what changed?”_

Thomas coughed to hide the lump in his throat, rubbing irritably at the corners of his eyes, as he spoke in a raspy voice, “I love the children. And they love me.” 

_“Surround yourself with that love.”_ Dr. Kinsey advised in a soothing voice, _“Build yourself up with it. That’s who you are. You’re not a fiend or an evil demon. You’re not an outcast, or an enemy. You’re the man those children love.”_

And the thought filled him up with warmth. 

 

~*~

That afternoon, Tom returned home with Sybbie around two. They’d had a good day out in the village, with the children learning a bit more about Tom’s workspace and enjoying a game with the other village children while Henry and Tom discussed a possible business venture in York. It was hard for Henry, being far away from race tracks and cars. He needed something to occupy his time; Tom could understand the desire. If they were lucky they could start their own business in York and be able to divide their time neatly between the family and work. Sometimes a bit of space from Downton was a good thing. It was easy to get lost in that world- wrapped up tight in the class system till you could barely breath for the suffocation of its rules. There had been a time when Tom hadn’t wanted it for Sybbie. Had been worried she’d grow up without a zest for life or knowledge of the outside world… but living in America hadn’t been the solution either. Indeed, he’d been miserable to be so far away from everything he knew and loved. As much as it shocked him, Downton Abbey was his home and the Crawley’s were his family. He needed that cradle to live life well. 

Sybbie looked exhausted as they pulled up into the drive, and as she toddled behind him into the house Tom wondered if she’d played a bit too roughly in the village. Her cheeks were flushed from the exertion. A late tea in the library surprised them all with the unexpected re appearance of Edith, who’d come home from her latest magazine adventure in London to be with Marigold and the family. She bounced her daughter upon her knee, holding a fresh bouquet of flowers that Marigold had plucked for her. After the hellish summer she’d had, it was good to see Edith smile. To know that she could still be happy… even if it wasn’t the full happiness that she so deserved. 

“I still cannot stop laughing at Spratt being your agony aunt.” Henry chortled, his free arm around Mary’s shoulders as he relaxed upon the couch and sipped a cooling cup of tea. George sat at their feet, rolling a toy car back and forth across the carpet. 

Sybbie relaxed into Tom’s side, her eyes closed as she feigned a little nap. Tom comforted her, stroking her feathery bangs from her eyes as he marveled at how truly beautiful- how perfect- his daughter was. Did she have any idea of her image? Was she even aware that she was an angel? 

“Yes, it is odd isn’t it.” Edith mused with a faint smile, sounding amused. “But talents are found everywhere.” 

“Like Barrow being a nanny.” Mary smirked into her teacup. 

“I still don’t approve of that.” Tom warned. For the idea of Sybbie being in Thomas Barrow’s charge of all people was slightly disturbing. It wasn’t that he thought Thomas some kind of hellish demon (he left ignorant ideas like that for people such as Carson)… it was that Thomas could be quite acerbic and dry, sharp tongued and just plain mean. What was to stop him from snapping at Sybbie one day? Or George? Or Marigold? The last thing Sybbie needed was another abusive nanny. 

“Oh don’t be sour.” Mary grumbled, setting her tea aside. 

“Do you not like Barrow, Tom?” Henry asked, curious. 

He was new to the house, he would learn. 

“I’ve known him for a long time, Henry.” Tom explained, “He’s not easy to like. He’s not like you.” He added with a chortle. Henry grinned toasting Tom with his half-finished tea. 

“Bawwow is my favowite!” George defended from the carpet, looking up from his game to stare disgruntled at Tom. 

“And you are undoubtably his.” Tom assured him, for it was no real secret that George ruled Barrow with a rod of iron. Probably because he was the heir of the estate. 

“Barrow says we’re all his favorites, Georgie.” Sybbie reminded, her voice raspy and sluggish with sleep as she blearily opened her eyes, “Stop claiming him for yours.” She coughed a bit, closing her eyes again. 

George stuck out his tongue spitefully. “Bawwow likes me more than you!” He sneered. 

“Ahah-“ Mary warned, and George immediately sucked his tongue back into his pert pink mouth, “No squabbling or you’ll spoil tea.” 

George made a noise of irritation, returning to his car. Sybbie just coughed again, grumbling in her half-sleep. 

“Goodness, darling.” Mary wondered, “Do you have a cough?” 

“She was tired all day.” Tom wondered, running his hand through Sybbie’s hair again. Was it his imagination or did she feel hotter than normal? 

“We’ll tell Barrow and see what he has to say about it.” Was Edith’s answer. Tom glanced across the divide at her, noting the genuine trust in her voice. She just gave him a warm smile, “I think Barrow is a good nanny Tom. He cares deeply about the children and is good to them. What more could you want in a nanny? I could have sworn ours wanted to strangle us in our sleep.” 

“Too true.” Mary muttered irritably, rolling her eyes at the memory. “I remember she used to pinch us to make us behave. We had bruises with her fingerprints.” 

Tom shrugged, noting that there wasn’t a bruise to be found on Sybbie, George, or Marigold- though Sybbie did looked flushed. 

“Maybe you’re right.” Tom murmured to himself, distracting himself from all conversation as he continued to brush Sybbie’s hair with his fingers. 

Barrow re appeared shortly thereafter, taking back the children at the end of tea. Tom noted that as he plucked Marigold up and took George and Sybbie upstairs, Barrow paused to press his hand to Sybbie’s brow. 

“You played too hard.” Barrow worried, allowing Sybbie to take his free hand as they all went upstairs together. George lead the charge, eager to regale his exploits to Barrow in full detail while Marigold lay her head upon Barrow’s shoulder and promptly went to sleep. It was easy to imagine that Barrow was nice to the children, and maybe he was… but Tom was nervous and he couldn’t deny it. 

He could remember just how sharp and ugly Barrow had been to William. Sneering and cutting at him in his grief over his departed mother and his love for Daisy. How many times had Branson gaped at Barrow from across the servant’s table, wondering where the line was and when Barrow would eventually cross it. 

Then Barrow had made that comment about Lady Grantham’s miscarried baby in front of William and William and finally cracked him across the face. God had that been satisfying, and not just for William! 

He thought about it all though dinner, wondering if he should speak to Lord Grantham about his concerns over Barrow being a ‘nanny’. It was difficult to enjoy his food as he thought of Sybbie in the nursery, possibly being belittled even as she tried to eat as well. As dinner turned to coffee and cigars in the library, Tom mused silently by the fire not touching his whiskey. At the far edge, Lord Grantham and Carson discussed upcoming plans for the family but Tom was thoroughly distracted. He wondered if he asked Sybbie whether she would tell him the honest truth or not. What if Barrow had scared her into silence, had warned her to claim him loving or suffer the consequences? The idea made him want to break the man’s neck- 

Henry suddenly rejoined Tom by the fire and sat across from him so that they could both share in the glow. Tom smiled at him, taking a small sip of whiskey. 

“Earlier tonight you were odd at dinner.” Henry said. 

“I have a lot on my mind.” Tom admitted. 

“Does Barrow really offend you that much?” Henry asked, curious. “I’ve found him to be a relatively decent chap.” 

“He can be very offensive, yes.” Tom warned, “His a bird of a different sort.” 

“Different how?” Henry wondered. 

He was the real test of a man’s character. Tom braced himself for the worst as he mused, “Think Oscar Wilde” in a soft voice. 

Henry’s eyes widened on reflex, the most benign of reactions when being told the ‘big secret’ of the staff. Tom hadn’t needed to be told. All it had taken was watching Barrow ‘talk’ with visiting grocer boys to realize what he was really doing. Flirting. Unsuccessfully. 

He was a fish in a small pond. Give him a day in London and he’d probably find more of his type, or so Tom assumed. You couldn’t blame the man for trying though. 

“Crikey.” Henry said after a moment, forcing a smile onto his face, “But I can’t claim to be surprised. He has a… look… about him. More of a painter than a sportsman, isn’t that what they say?” 

“He uses it as an excuse to be rude.” Tom explained. Henry looked off put by that, “He thinks that people judge him on that alone, but it’s not he reason he’s disliked downstairs. He’ll bite your nose off and not think twice.” 

“I see.” Henry leaned back on the sofa, stroking his lips contemplatively, “Sounds like a sharp fellow.” 

“Oh he’s like a razor.” Tom snorted, “Sybil adored him but I never took to him.” 

“Did she?” Henry was curious. 

“They worked together during the war.” Tom explained, throat tightening as it always did when Sybil was brought up. Even the name alone was too much at times. It brought back the memory of her perfume. The way she’d wrapped her hair in an elegant bun or held her fork during dinner. All the things that had made her stunningly perfect. “She claimed he was the ‘salt of the earth’— never understood it.” Tom forced out a laugh. 

“Maybe she saw something others didn’t.” Henry offered. 

_“He’s the salt of the earth.” Sybil sighed, tugging off her nurse’s cap to dag at the faint sweat upon her brow as Tom drove her home for supper with the family. “If only he knew it.”_

_“You do realize he’s about as friendly as a cactus?” Tom warned, worried Sybil would end up on the bitter end of Barrow if she didn’t watch out. Instead she shot him a disgruntled look as she folded her cap in her lap._

_“Even cactuses have worth, Tom.” She reminded him. How could he help but smile._

“I wouldn’t doubt it.” Tom forced himself back to the present, focusing upon the taste of his whiskey and the warmth of the fire. Both made his blood run faster. “She did the same for me, after all.” 

Henry just smiled, in that benign understanding way Tom enjoyed so. 

~*~

Upstairs, Thomas tucked the children into bed, bathes completed and dinner dusted. Sybbie had been oddly lethargic, even for a day out in the village, eager to crawl into bed as soon as she was able and not even complaining for more play time. She’d certainly drank a lot of tea, perhaps dehydrated, and Thomas wondered if she’d played too roughly with the other children. George didn’t seem to be any worse the wear, begging for another story even as Thomas tucked him into bed and primped his pillow. Marigold was already snoring in her crib, her mouth falling open every time Thomas tried to close it with a gentle finger to the chin. 

Even for all his desires, George could not deny the call of the moon. He sighed, blue eyes fluttering closed in the semi-dark of the dimmed nursery. 

Thomas slowly sat back down in his chair, working on Sybbie’s frocks. He’d already finished one, he only had a little bit left on the second dress to go. He finished it easily the dark, listening to the family fall asleep around him as the moon drew higher in the sky. He checked his pocket watch to note it was eleven at night… he ought to get some sleep in order to be up and ready in the morning- 

Sybbie coughed. 

Thomas sat her dress down in his lap, brow furrowed as he looked across the room to where Sybbie lay fretting in her bed.   
She was sweating.   
Profusely. 

Slowly, Thomas rose from his seat, setting her dress back down upon his rocking chair. He crept across the room, careful not to wake the children as he took to a knee before Sybbie and felt her skin. She was practically on fire, her whole skin covered his a hot pink rash as if she was sun burned. 

Thomas’ heart skipped a beat in his chest. 

“Darling, you have a fever-“ Thomas whispered in shock, more to himself than to Sybbie. Fearful, he pulled back her covers, noting that they were dripping in sweat too so that there was a faint outline of her upon the sheets. Her nightgown was practically drenched. Lifting it up, hoping to cool her skin, Thomas’ eyes widened in horror at the hot pink rash that he could now see upon her stomach, thighs, and chest. She coughed again, a throaty weak emission. 

Thomas reached up and turned on the lamp between Sybbie and George’s beds, flooding the nursery room with sudden light. George stirred a little in his sleep, eyes scrunching even while closed. 

“Sybbie.” Thomas whispered into her reddened ear. “Open your mouth. Open your mouth for me darling.” 

She did so, barely able to open her jaw in her feverish daze. Thomas pinched her chin between two fingers, desperate to get a good look at her tongue. 

It was chalk white, covered in large red spots just like strawberry. 

She had scarlet fever. 

Thomas’ heart pounded in his chest, panic flooding through his veins just as it had done the night of the fire. He had the same urge to run out of the room and scream for help, only this time the welfare of two other children rested on his shoulders and he could no more scream than he could fire a gun in the house. No, this required fast thinking and even faster action if Sybbie were to survive. A child would not die on his watch- it would not happen. Not when he loved her so. 

Thomas jerked Sybbie’s sheets off of her, letting her cool in the nursery air. The other children were susceptible to scarlet fever- could easily catch it from any cough Sybbie emitted. To children as young as Marigold, the disease was practically a death sentence. They would not be able to sleep in the nursery with her tonight. Thomas reached into George’s bed, pulling him so that he cradled himself in Thomas’ arms as limp as a rag doll. Taking him into the playroom, Thomas lay him upon the couch to cover him with a soft throw for warmth. George shifted in his sleep as Thomas returned to the nursery and pulled Marigold from her crib. She too was just as limp, a little cherub in his arms with her head upon his shoulder. As he returned to the playroom, ready to make a bee line for the telephone downstairs in the entrance hall he was stopped by the sound of George whimpering upon the couch. 

“Bawwow…” Thomas looked around to see George sitting up, rubbing his eyes. “Is something wong?” 

“No.” Thomas soothed in a rush, returning to George’s side to urge him to lay back down, “No, everything is going to be just fine. I want you to sleep here on the couch until I come back, okay?” 

“Bawwow I’m scared-“ George admitted, sensing the anxiety in Thomas’ voice. 

“Don’t be-“ Thomas pressed a chaste kiss to his brow, whispering, “I’m going to be right back. I’m going to get help, but until I do I need you to stay right here on this couch.” Trying to lighten the mood he tapped George’s nose. He was running out of time. 

“Can I go to bed soon?” George asked, unsure. 

“Very soon.” Thomas assured him. “Just lay back and close your eyes… and I’ll be right back.” 

George did as he was told, relaxing upon the couch and closing his eyes again. Thomas covered him a little better with his throw and bolted from the nursery with Marigold in his arms. 

He hurried downstairs in the dark, moving as fast as he could with a sleeping toddler in his arms. As he reached the bottom floor, Thomas headed for locked front doors to the telephone that was waiting upon its gleaming pedestal. Thomas pulled it up at once, having to juggle Marigold around the waist and clutch the receiver in the same hand- not an easy task. The number was easy enough to dial but talking was another thing all together. 

_“Downton Hospital”_ came the grainy voice of a nurse on the other hand after a few short rings. 

“This is Thomas Barrow, I work at the abbey-“ Thomas said, “I need Dr. Clarkson right away. I have a child sick with scarlet fever in a house with an infant and a toddler.” 

_“I’ll notify the doctor now.”_ The nurse said in a rush, the urgency in her voice a true testament to the nature of this emergency. 

“Tell him to hurry.” Thomas begged, before setting the phone back down and hanging it up. With that he hustled off for the green baize door, opening it with one hand so that he was suddenly flooded with sharp light. Marigold mumbled onto his shoulder, hiding her face in his shoulder. He hurried down the stairs, one again juggling between moving fast and keeping Marigold soothed. As he reached the bottom the sound of laughter and chattering irritated Marigold even more. She started to whimper; Thomas wrapped his free arm around her, covering her ears as best he could. 

He rushed for the kitchen, looking in to see Mrs. Patmore arguing with Daisy over god knows what while they finished up the washing for the night. Both looked shocked to see him. 

“Thomas!” Mrs. Patmore spluttered, suds dripping from her enormous arms, “What are you doing down here with Miss Marigold-?” 

“Where’s Mrs. Hughes?” Thomas demanded. Mrs. Patmore spluttered at the anxiety in his voice. 

“In Mr. Carson’s office-“ she finally managed to get out. 

“I need you to chop up a few cloves of garlic for me.” Thomas begged, knowing that it would be the best shot of fighting off an infection in an infant, “Mix it with honey for me. Can you do that? It’s an emergency-“ he begged. 

“What’s going on?” Mrs. Patmore demanded, sounding more alarmed by the minute. Daisy looked between them both, eyes as wide as saucers. 

“Sybbie’s contracted scarlet fever.” Thomas explained. Mrs. Patmore clutched at her heart, eyes widening, “I have to protect the other children as well as her. Please help me.” 

“Oh!” Mrs. Patmore dried her arms off at once, “I know just the thing, I’ll get started right now-“ 

“Thank you.” Thomas said in a rush. 

“Did you ring for the doctor?” Mrs. Patmore demanded, now talking fast as she snatched up a whole garlic and began to peel its cloves apart with speed. 

“Yes! Yes.” Thomas snapped, no longer willing to waste more time. He left her in the kitchen, now assisted by Daisy. As he rounded the corner to Mr. Carson’s office, he heard Mrs. Patmore snap, _“Daisy! Fetch me that ginger and shave it as thin as you can. Go fast, girl!”_

Thomas rapt his knuckles fast upon Mr. Carson’s door, jerking it open before he was even given a voice to answer. His reward was a shocking view of Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes bent in for what was surely about to be a kiss- the pair of them leapt apart like they’d been shocked by electricity, furious to see him in the doorway. 

They’d get over it. 

“Mr-!” Carson spluttered, red in the face (and not all of it from anger), “What are you doing?” He hissed as he spotted Marigold asleep in his arms. 

“Sybbie has contracted scarlet fever.” Thomas said. Carson gaped, horrified. Mrs. Hughes looked taken aback, “I need help moving the children to another sleeping arrangement. The doctor has been called, he’s on his way, but I wanted you to be aware-“ 

“Good lord.” Carson whispered, grave, hands balling into fists. 

“I’ll help.” Mrs. Hughes said at once, shedding her coat and hat to place them upon Mr. Carson’s desk. 

“Thank you.” Thomas said, now feeling slightly more relieved. 

The three of them left the office, Thomas covering Marigold’s ears again as they stepped back out into the garish light of the servant’s hall. As they walked briskly to the stairs they were passed by the Bates who were leaving for the night with their hats and coats. Mrs. Hughes reached out, grabbing Anna’s arm so that she stopped, shocked. 

“Anna, we need your help.” Mrs. Hughes ordered, “Get Ms. Baxter and Andy and meet me in the Nursery as fast as you can.” 

“Yes, Mrs. Hughes.” Anna said at once, never one to question an order. She left her husband in the hallway, heading back for the servant’s hall. 

“What’s going on?” Bates demanded, wary. Thomas left Carson to explain the details, heading back upstairs. 

With Mrs. Hughes at his side (Carson held up slightly by Bates), Thomas returned to the dim and quiet of the nursery to find George still asleep on the couch. His heart pounded in his chest, his brain racing as he attempted to think. 

“Alright…” Thomas muttered aloud, pacing the floor. 

“Let’s-“ Mrs. Hughes tried to interject, but Thomas stopped her with a hand. 

He loved the children best. He would solve this situation. 

“No.” He warned her, “Let me think.” 

She fell silent, pursing her lips as he paced. He paused, turning back to look at her, an idea rapidly forming to him. 

“Wake Mr. Talbot, Mr. Branson, and Lady Edith.” Thomas commanded, “Bring them here.” 

“I will.” Mrs. Hughes said. She left at once, and as she did so she passed Mr. Carson in the doorway who’d finally caught up. Thomas noted his hands were shaking. 

“Mr. Carson, will you tell his lordship, and open the door for Dr. Clarkson?” Thomas asked. 

“I think that would be best.” Mr. Carson agreed, stepping back out into the hallway and heading in the opposite direction of Mrs. Hughes. In the sudden silence, Thomas poked his head back into the nursery, noting that Sybbie was still laying quietly in her bed, coughing every so often but otherwise utterly still. He didn’t have long to himself- suddenly Lady Edith appeared in the nursery doorway looking petrified. 

“What’s going on?” She whispered in a rush, taking Marigold from Thomas’ arms. Thomas allowed her, knowing that it soothed her to hold her daughter, to feel like she had some kind of control. Even as she spoke, Henry Talbot appeared in the doorway, disorientated and in a house coat. 

“What’s going on?” Mr. Talbot wondered, noticing George asleep on the couch. 

“Sybbie has contracted Scarlet Fever.” Thomas whispered. Lady Edith gasped, horrified. Mr. Talbot went white. 

“Good lord-“ he muttered softly. 

“Here’s what I need you to do.” Thomas instructed, knowing that it would be crucial for him to keep a calm head in the following hours lest the parents panic. “Lady Edith, will you take Marigold and let her sleep in your room tonight-?” 

“Of course.” Lady Edith whispered, clutching Marigold tightly to her chest. She kissed her daughter sweetly upon the forehead. 

“I’ll have Andy move her crib, I’ll help him-“ Thomas assured her before turning his attentions to Henry Talbot, “Mr. Talbot, George is a little difficult but-“ 

“It’s not a problem.” Mr. Talbot assured him, heading over to the couch and hoisting George up to hold him in his arms. 

“We have to keep them away or they’ll contract it.” Thomas warned softly. Both Lady Edith and Mr. Talbot listened with grave expressions, “It’s contagious within the first 24 hours. If we can stave it off and keep Sybbie isolated the other children will be safe. “

“I’d like to keep her with me for a while.” Lady Edith whispered fearfully, “I may take her back to London with me-“ 

“That might be best.” Thomas admitted. The more distance between an infant and scarlet fever, the better. Lady Edith looked petrified now, practically shaking. 

Thomas didn’t know why he did it- perhaps a shared love for a child spurning on, but he reached out to take Lady Edith gently by the arm to drag her away from her fears and back into the demands of the present. 

“Lady Edith-“ Thomas urged softly, “It’ll be alright. I have a few treatments to give Marigold, and I’ll make sure Dr. Clarkson gives her something too. She’ll be fine. She’s safe.” 

“…Thank you, Barrow.” Lady Edith whispered, slightly soothed. She left, taking Marigold with her. Mr. Talbot followed out after, taking George with him. At least they were out of the nursery now, and in someone else’s charge. Now he could focus solely on Sybbie. Thomas returned to the nursery, opening the door wide to let in some fresh air. He fetched a washcloth from the water closet, wetting it under the tap to wring it out in a shaking iron grip. He squatted by Sybbie’s bedside, and slowly wiped away every bead of sweat from her flushed skin. 

Mrs. Hughes appeared in the doorway, Thomas looked around worriedly. An odd expression crossed her face, something akin to true sadness that made Thomas’ heart clench as he remembered a night not unlike this when another Sybil had been in dire danger. 

He continued to wipe at Sybbie’s skin, unafraid even as she coughed near his face. He’d gladly contract Scarlet Fever to keep her safe. 

Suddenly the sound of voices and feet gave Thomas pause. The doorway was suddenly crammed as both Dr. Clarkson and Mr. Carson appeared with Lord Grantham just over their shoulders. 

“I’ll go get Mr. Branson.” Mrs. Hughes declared, stepping out of the room. It seemed she’d waited for the doctor- perhaps not wanting Branson to panic in lieu of knowing an answer. 

“Barrow.” Dr. Clarkson greeted him. Thomas immediately scooted over to give him room, not moving from Sybbie’s side lest she needed him. In her feverish daze, she began to whimper. 

“Shh..” Thomas soothed, wiping up her tears as they fell to gently stroke her hair. “Don’t you cry now.” 

“Not a fret, Miss Sybbie.” Dr. Clarkson assured her, opening his traveling bag to withdraw an enormous syringe. The sight of it made Thomas wince in sympathy. “It will all be better soon.” 

“Barrow…” She whimpered weakly, brown eyes misty as she gazed up at him in fear. Thomas cradled her face just as Baxter had done for him so that she could not see the syringe Dr. Clarkson prepared. 

“Hello beautiful.” Thomas murmured softly. Sybbie blinked up at him.

She shook her head, her whimpering picking up in pitch. Thomas realized Dr. Clarkson was injecting her, and she shrieked, crying flat out. Thomas covered her protectively, kissing her burning brow. 

“Just a pinch, my dove.” Thomas whispered into her ear, “Just a pinch and nothing more.” 

“It burns-!” She wailed pitifully. 

“Just a pinch and it’s over.” Thomas would not turn his head, refused to break in his protective hold even as she cried pitifully into his hands. He would protect her to the end if need be. 

“You’re very brave, Miss Sybil.” Dr. Clarkson praised, in a gentle voice. “It’s almost over now,” 

“B-barrow-“ She hiccuped in distress. Thomas nuzzled her soaked brow, kissing her inflamed skin. 

“Just a pinch and it’s over.” He repeated, wondering if the others would ever be able to fathom just how much pain he garnered from listening to Sybbie cry. It was worse than a thousand injections, a hundred scarlet fevers. 

Far worse. 

 

~*~

Dreams of Ireland lush and green were suddenly cut off by the voice of Mrs. Hughes in his ear and a sudden shaking of his bed. Tom started in his sleep, wondering if it was just another dream interjecting the first one until Mrs. Hughe’s Scottish brogue persisted. 

“Mr. Branson- Mr. Branson!” 

Tom gave a start, clutching his covers to his chest blinking owlishly at Mrs. Hughes in the dark. What on Earth was she doing in his room? His mind started spinning in dizzying circles, each scenario more painful and wild than the last. 

“Mrs. Hughes!” He bleated in surprise. 

“Mr. Branson-“ She clutched at her throat, taking a step back to give him some space to pull up his covers. Tom suddenly realized she had a flashing view of his naked stomach from where his shirt had ridden up in his sleep. He jerked the sheets up at once. “I’m sorry to wake you this way but I think you’d better come with me.” 

She fetched him his housecoat and his rose at once, following her at a brisk pace as she lead him down the hall (which was lit up much to his surprise). He was alarmed to see Henry walking past with a sleeping George in his arms. 

“What’s going on?” Tom demanded, his mind suddenly filling with fear. Had Barrow cocked something up and harmed the children? It seemed plausible. 

“Go see Barrow.” Henry directed, pointing over his shoulder back the way he’d come, “He’ll sort it out.” 

_Sybbie-_ he thought in alarm, _I have to protect Sybbie_. 

 

He no longer allowed Mrs. Hughes to set the pace, sprinting down the hall to the playroom door which he threw open to see Edith inside rocking Marigold to her chest, whispering feverishly to Mr. Carson and Lord Grantham who both looked stern but soothing. As soon as they saw Tom, their faces filled with dread. 

_Sybbie-!_ He burst into the nursery, frightened half to death for what he might find-. 

Sybbie lay sweating feverishly upon her bed, covered in a hot pink rash that made her look as if she had a particularly bad case of sunburn. She whimpered and whined, her face entombed in Barrow’s arms and he whispered sweet nothings to her and blocked her from seeing Dr. Clarkson injecting her with god knows what at the crook of her elbow. 

He’d seen rashes like that before. 

“Oh god-“ He whimpered aloud, horrified. He reeled backward, clutching at the door behind him so that he might not fall to the ground. He thought he might faint from shock. First Sybil and now Sybbie too-? Would he lose his own daughter in a mirage of heat and screaming pain-?! 

“Don’t panic, Mr. Branson-“ Dr. Clarkson spoke up from Sybbie’s bedside, his tone soothing but his eyes locked upon his work, “It’s not nearly as bad as it looks.” 

“But-“ Tom whimpered, “But it’s scarlet fever, isn’t it?” 

“It is.” Dr. Clarkson agreed, and Tom thought briefly of flinging himself from the roof of the abbey in his despair until the good doctor continued on, “But it’s from a throat infection. Her fever will subside in three to five days. Thomas did right by noting her symptoms, you can have him to thank for her survival. Quick work is vital.” 

Stunned, Tom felt fear fall away into something that could only be characterized as bleak amusement. Sybbie was going to live and he had Barrow to thank for it? Barrow hadn’t botched anything or threatened anybody- he’d done well and acted appropriately… the reward being his sacred child’s continued existence? It seemed almost laughable to imagine but… here was the proof. 

Tom had been so wrapped around the idea that Barrow would abuse the children that not once had he considered… that he might… 

“Take it outside, please.” Barrow murmured, that acerbic voice usually so cold now darkened by lack of sleep. “She needs her sleep-“ 

“I won’t leave her.” Tom choked out, determined to take a stand. Barrow paid him absolutely no mind, still enshrining his daughter’s face to continue whispering to her. In his hold she seemed to grow still, no longer whimpering even as Dr. Clarkson withdrew the vaccine to cork the needle and place it back in his traveling bag. He pulled out several topical ointments and vials of liquids, setting them upon the beside table between Sybbie and George’s beds so that he might use the light to his advantage. 

“Let’s take a moment so we can talk outside.” Dr. Clarkson urged, plucking up a small vial no bigger than a teaspoon, “I promise nothing disastrous will occur. She’s stable, and will probably return to sleep.” 

Tom couldn’t take his eyes off Sybbie, even as Dr. Clarkson gently pulled him away. As they rounded the door back to the playroom, Tom’s last view was of Barrow pulling her bottom sheet up so that it covered her trembling limbs. He’d turned his face to touch her own and was kissing her brow. 

~*~

Despite Thomas’ initial idea to help Andy move Marigold’s crib into Lady Edith’s room, Andy turned out to be able to do it all by himself leaving Thomas free to comfort Sybbie alone. Mrs. Hughes, Baxter, and Anna all took it in their stride to strip the beds and put on clean sheets. Even the towels used for bathing had to be taken- everything was conterminous. They put the whole lot in a cloth sack which Andy drug back downstairs to leave in the soak overnight. 

It turned out that Sybbie’s new bedsheets scratched her mercilessly; her hot skin felt like sandpaper in areas where the rash was thick, and it made her whimper as she tossed and turned. To give her sleep, Thomas turned off the light and cradled her in his arms, plucking her up to rock with her in his rocking chair so that he could be her warmth and blanket. This was incredibly dangerous, to tend to a child so carefully even as she fell through the woes of a contagious fever, but Thomas didn’t care. So deep and undying was his love for Sybbie that he’d gladly suffer for her sake. Anything to give her comfort. 

She slept fitfully, every so often waking to a hacking cough. Mrs. Patmore had sent up several teas and tonics, some with honey and garlic, some with ginger and apple cider vinegar. Thomas used a ginger tea laced with honey and garlic to soothe Sybbie’s throat, ladling it down her throat with a spoon. She’d toss, wake, cough, take a sip of tea, then go back to bed. It felt like they struggled for two hours before she finally went to bed, and by that time everyone else had drifted off. The Carson’s had left for their cottage, content in Dr. Clarkson’s diagnosis and care. Lord Grantham, Lady Edith, Henry Talbot, and all the others had drifted off to their own chambers with strict instructions that they were to be waken should anything dire occur. This left only Tom Branson awake, who clung to the doorframe of the nursery and winced each time Sybbie coughed. He’d taken more soothing than Lady Edith, and that was saying something. Thomas refused to look at him, focusing solely on Sybbie as he rocked her and kept her tea close by. 

“…Barrow…” Sybbie whimpered, sluggishly awakening to another tremendous cough. 

“Shh-“ Thomas filled a spoon full of tea, helping her to swallow several times before she leaned her head back on his chest and closed her eyes again. 

After a tense moment in which Thomas tried to remain as still as possible, Sybbie finally went back to sleep. Each breath rattled in her little splotchy pink chest. She slept only in her britches, naked of even a night dress. Her limbs, pale and small, were burning hot with fever. As much as he wanted to cover her with a blanket he knew it was unwise, and instead warmed her with his own body. Soon she was deep asleep, her rattling breath softening till it was barely discernible. 

“…Is she… Is she alright?” Branson whispered. Thomas turned his head just slightly to the left, barely a twitch to let Branson know he was in fact listening. 

“It’s just like strep throat.” Thomas whispered back. “Only a higher fever.” 

“But she…” Branson’s throat constricted; he swallowed, “but she doesn’t have sepsis.” 

“No.” Thomas shook his head. Sybbie coughed again, waking herself with a whimper, and Thomas at once spooned more tea into her mouth. She swallowed it, barely awake, and immediately fell back asleep. Thomas sighed, wondering if she’d be able to get a solid half hour of continuous sleep what with her horrid cough. Perhaps come morning her cough would be slightly better and she could finally get some sleep. 

“…How did you know?” Branson asked. Thomas looked over his shoulder to see the man gaping in the doorway, mystified as if Thomas was a stranger. How many times had he been met with this same reaction, this queer dulled amazement tinged with disbelief whenever he was even slightly ‘kind’. 

It made him bitter.   
Thomas looked away, taking the ball of his foot to start rocking his chair. 

“The rash.” He explained. Against him, Sybbie began to snore again. “She went to bed fine but after a while I noticed her sweating profusely. I pulled back the covers and saw the rest. I had her stick out her tongue for me, and it confirmed what I already knew.” 

“What do you mean?” 

Branson came around Thomas’ chair, stooping over to cup his daughter’s pale sweating face in one hand. 

“Look at her tongue.” Thomas offered. Branson gently squeezed Sybbie’s jaw, letting her lips pop open so that he could see her white tongue dotted with pink spots. Amazed, Branson let go of her jaw to gently brush her sweaty bangs of her face and stroke her cheek. Thomas didn’t speak, feeling oddly stony even in the face of such paternal love. 

His father had never touched him in such a way. Even in his times of sickness, his father had only ever berated him. His mother hadn’t been much better. It made him wonder if, even in infancy, his parents had ever cared for him at all. Unnerved at the idea that they might not have cared for him, even when they were nursing him, even when they were giving birth to him, even when they were conceiving him… Thomas pressed a soft kiss to Sybbie’s scalding forehead. 

_I love you_ , he wanted to say to her. Did she know how much she meant to him? 

“… You’ll get sick.” Branson spoke up. “You shouldn’t hold her-“ 

Thomas glared at him, holding Sybbie closer in clear defiance. Branson watched her wearily. 

“She’s a child.” Thomas whispered. “She’s afraid. I love her. You think I’d let her be alone?” 

“I love her too, I am her father, you know.” Branson warned, his ton becoming clipped and irritated. Thomas didn’t care; Branson could be as snide as he pleased, Thomas would still love his daughter. 

“… You should go to bed.” Thomas muttered, knowing his tone was starting to become snide as well. He stopped himself, knowing Dr. Kinsey would be angry should he hear. He sighed, forcing his ton to be calm. Branson’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “… Nothing will come of you worrying yourself sick tonight. I’ll stay with her… you get some sleep. In the morning we can swap. That way someone is always with her.” 

Branson’s face went through several shifts. First he looked irritable, then surprised, then slightly suspicious and finally morose. 

“… I suppose you’re right.” Branson finally mumbled in the end. “Can I… Can I get you anything before I go?” 

Thomas shook his head.   
Branson seemed ready to argue, ready to insist otherwise, but then he seemed to exhaust himself with the mere possibility and instead left the nursery. His gate was slow, stumbling, and as he headed out the play room door, he looked over his shoulder one more time and opened his mouth to say something. But then for reasons unknown he decided otherwise, and continued on out the door. 

Thomas would not know it, but Branson would get no sleep that night. 

 

~*~

 

_“She’s a child. She’s afraid. I love her. You think I’d let her be alone?”_

The entire night, Tom had lain in a state of disbelief, staring up at his ceiling and wondering at Barrow’s unexpected words. Despite how much Tom echoed Barrow’s sentiment, he could not help but rationalize that a child with scarlet fever was dangerous to everyone not just infants and toddlers. Barrow was in real danger of contracting the sickness if he didn’t watch himself. 

Before being awoken by Mrs. Hughes, Tom had thought with intense certainty that Thomas Barrow was not right for the position of Nanny. After watching Barrow comfort his daughter, nurse her as tenderly as any professional nanny, and essentially save her life by calling the doctor before it was too late…. Tom wasn’t so sure. 

To hear Barrow openly admit to loving his daughter had been shocking to say the least, and in all honesty it changed the way Tom looked at him. Was it true scheming, to be the nanny? Or was it Barrow’s way of being closer to the children he loved? 

Tom spent the entire night fumbling through memories both fresh and old of Barrow interacting with the children, in particular Sybbie. Even in her infancy when grief had still shadowed Tom’s every footstep, he’d noticed that when he’d spotted Barrow around he’d always been prone to make odd noises at her or flash silly faces. Once, a maid had told him she’d walked in Barrow lifting her out of her cradle and kissing her brow, telling her that she was a ‘beauty’ and a ‘sweet pea’. Later, Lady Grantham had made no secret of Barrow’s shocking discovery that Nanny West was abusing Sybbie. Had it not been for him, she would have suffered ungodly amounts of trauma. Then Barrow had become strange, almost a ghost upstairs. Sometimes you’d see him, sometimes you wouldn’t, but an air of sickness had floated around after him like a spectral trail. Barrow had made it a point to keep well away from Tom which suited Tom well. On the off chance he’d hear odd things- that Barrow had defended him to Stole the butler and been attempting to do ‘better’ downstairs. 

Something about that didn’t ring true to Tom, but he supposed he’d have to wait to see. 

He recalled how, on the day of the Nanny’s heist, Tom had walked into Baxter running frantically up the main staircase, panicking and begging for him to help her ‘catch’ Barrow. 

_“He’s losing his mind!”_ Baxter beseeched _“He’s running after specters-!”_

Tom had tried to grab Barrow when he passed but it had been like trying to hold onto a very angry and wriggly stick of butter. Barrow had slipped right through his fingers, dashing out the front door and after the thieving Nanny. When the truth had come to light, Baxter had been incredibly guilty for thinking Barrow was going insane until Tom had consoled her. 

_“Don’t fret over it.”_ he’d urged her, “I don’t think there’s a man in this house who hasn’t thought it before.” 

For some reason, that hadn’t made Baxter feel better. Indeed, she’d looked close to tears as she’d paced by the library door. 

 

That very night, Tom had been awoken by Baxter, again, and once more the topic of conversation had been Barrow, or rather- _“Mr. Branson, please come with me I don’t want to wake his Lordship.”_

Downstairs Tom had went,wrapped in his housecoat, only to find the entrance hall full of light and (of all things) servants. Mrs. Patmore, Moseley, and Andy were all clustered around a frazzled Dr. Clarkson asking for answers. Bore on a stretcher between two paramedics was Barrow, bleeding profusely from the back of the head, ears, and nostrils with two blossoming black eyes that looked truly horrendous. Baxter had stood over Barrow, gently stroking his bangs from his bruised forehead. Indeed, he’d been bruised all over. It looked like he’d been in a fight with Attila the Hun. Apparently he’d suffered an open skull fracture against the bathtub rim. 

_“We found him in a bathtub full of blood- He was thrashing like mad and screaming that Carson was trying to kill him. That he didn’t have eyes.”_ Baxter had whispered fretfully. Beneath her touch, Barrow had twitched fretfully. 

_“Sounds like a nightmare.”_ Tom had mused, _“But why was he in a bathtub in the middle of the night?”_

_“I’m unsure.”_ Baxter had admitted, _“But he said he saw Mr. Carson drowning him.”_

_“I once dreamed Mr. Carson was beating me with a rake.”_ Tom tried for a bit of gentle humor to help lift the mood. _“He just might still.”_

This time, Baxter had laughed though only a little. 

_“We have to move him to the hospital now. I have an operating table being prepped.”_ Dr. Clarkson had ordered, _“Mr. Branson, I’ll leave it up to you to tell his Lordship tomorrow morning. I’ve already informed Mr. Carson over the telephone.”_

_“Please, call us and let us know when he gets out of surgery.”_ Baxter had begged, _“And when we’ll be able to visit.”_

_“I’ll keep you informed. Goodnight.”_ Dr. Clarkson had shaken both their hands, and without another word Barrow had been whisked off in the back of an ambulance.

The next thing Tom had known, a therapist by the name of Dr. Robert Kinsey had been staying over at the abbey to administer more aid to Barrow under Dr. Clarkson’s orders… perhaps because of Thomas’ vivid nightmares about Mr. Carson. He’d left after only a few days and by the time he was gone Barrow had become Nanny. 

What a strange world they lived in. 

As the sun finally crept over the horizon and painted the Abbey in a pale crisp blue, Tom slunk from bed and crept back down the hall to the playroom. As he opened the nursery door he paused, a jolt running through his heart like sharp electricity. 

Barrow slept in the rocking chair right where Tom had left him the night before. Both he and Sybbie were fast asleep, cradled around one another. Sybbie’s rash was still atrocious looking, painful to even glance at, but she appeared to be resting well. Barrow on the other hand was sweating, his vest shed on the ground and his shirt sleeves open to reveal a night tank beneath. He looked flushed. 

He looked… odd. 

Tom approached as slow as possible, eager not to wake Sybbie nor Barrow. When unaffected by anger or misery, Barrow looked as normal as any man. Even gentler, though it hardly made sense. The pink tinge in Barrow’s cheeks worried Tom. Nervous that he might be catching fever, Tom reached out and gently touched the back of his fingers to Barrow’s cheek. 

Barrow shifted, but just slightly, still too deep in sleep to wake. He didn’t appear to have a fever, for which Tom was grateful. The less sick men in the house, the better. 

Tom drew his hand back, not wanting to intrude on Barrow’s personal space. Was it his imagination or did he look…. thin? Like he’d lost too much weight? 

Tom shook his head, turned, and left the room. It was time to fetch the maids and Mrs. Hughes. 

 

Four days passed, though Sybbie was pitiful for all of them. Her fever slowly dissipated, with Barrow constantly presiding over her wellbeing. The maids and Mrs. Hughes had to step up and assist with both the other children, though Marigold left for London with Edith the day after Sybbie’s diagnosis. Poor George was deprived of his Barrow time and had to instead make do with Henry and Mary. It was nice, but it wasn’t what he preferred, and he stayed in a slightly grumpy mood that nothing could cure while Barrow nursed Sybbie back to health. Every day Tom took it upon himself to help the maids as best he could, whether it was bringing up a tray of broth or taking down dirty sheets. On the fourth day of Sybbie’s recovery, Tom went downstairs to look for chores only to find that Mrs. Patmore was scourging out a massive cauldron which had apparently been filled with oatmeal. The answer to the odd question was even odder still: “Thomas needed it for Sybbie. He’s giving her a bath.”. 

Barrow needed a cauldron full of porridge… for a bath? 

Back upstairs Tom went, entering the playroom and nursery to find both empty. Instead, he found Barrow and Sybbie in the children’s lavatory,a fine bathroom and washroom combined with clean white tile and draping curtains that filtered in golden sunlight. Sybbie was in, of all things, a rather large wooden barrel that seemed to have been drug up from outside in the area yard. Scowling and whimpering, Sybbie sat with her arms folded over her naked chest, bitter as Barrow lathered in coat after coat of pale (but warm) goopy oatmeal. Shirts sleeves rolled up to the elbow and arms dripping in porridge, Barrow worked with intense concentration to cover each inch of Sybbie’s remaining pink rash. 

Tom watched from the doorway, utterly amused. 

“So you really are bathing her in oatmeal.” Tom scoffed, amazed. Barrow glanced up, pale eyes judging him warily as if he were a threat of all things. Sybbie looked over her shoulder, whimpering loudly at Tom for support in her battle against Barrow’s odd bath. Unfortunately, she would go without backup. Tom knew a good idea when he saw one. 

“Barrow’s bathing me in porridge.” Sybbie grumbled. “It’s sticky, and I can’t even eat it!” 

“I should hope not! You’re sitting in it!” Tom warned her in good humor, crossing the bathroom floor to squat down next to Sybbie’s make-shift tub. He saw now that she wasn’t sitting in a pool of porridge so much as a shallow puddle. This was clearly not a one-stop shop; the actual porcelain washtub stood only just a few paces away- Tom wondered if it was Barrow’s end plan to bath Sybbie with water. To simply let her sit and stew for a while. He reached out, cupping his daughter’s as-of-yet clean forehead. She was warm but not worryingly so. 

“How do you feel?” He asked. 

“Sticky.” She grumbled. 

“It’ll help you peel faster-“ Barrow consoled her, his tone firm yet gentle. Clearly they’d been having this debate for a while now. Sybbie sulked at him, “Don’t give me that face!” He warned softly, and just for cheek he smoothed porridge upon her cheeks and forehead. She let out an audible whine. “When it’s dried we’ll wash you off nice and proper and put you in fresh clothes.” 

Tom watched, amused. Barrow coated Sybbie in oatmeal like he would a clock parts in oil. For some odd reason, Barrow had kept on his fingerless glove, but also seemed to be wearing wrist sleeves. Perhaps it helped him support heavier weight with less strain on his tendons- Tom had known car mechanics to do the same thing before. Maybe it really was a strain to carry George and Sybbie on his back all the time. 

“I hate this!” Sybbie burst out, frustrated. 

“I hate it too!” Barrow grumbled. Sybbie blinked, confused, “I have to clean it up!” he reminded her, “Hold still.” he commanded as Sybbie tried to squirm away. He was careful to coat her thighs and stomach the most- Tom knew why. Those two places had been the worst for her rash and were still slightly pink. 

“Barrow, this is silly.” Sybbie tried for reason. Once again, Barrow shot her down. 

“No, what’s silly is you getting scarlet fever from one day in the village.” Thomas said. Sybbie sighed, leaning her head against the rim of the wooden tub. “What were you playing in, neh?” 

Tom thought back, recalling the entire day. They’d gone out after breakfast, played for a bit at the office with Tom’s new printing machines, then gone for a quick lunch at a local shop and taken a walk through the park. After that, they’d visited two farms which needed repairs and finally returned home. 

“I was playing with daddy’s machines!” Sybbie protested. Barrow shook his head, unconvinced. 

“Machines don’t give fevers.” Barrow reminded her. 

He had a valid point there. Tom spoke up, brushing at Sybbie’s silky brown hair. How often it reminded him of Sybil’s own. 

“She played with the local children after our lunch.” Tom offered. Barrow listened but did not look at him. “George didn’t, he rode Henry’s shoulders.” 

“There you have it.” Barrow drawled, his tone turning just slightly snide. “The culprit.” He gently brushed porridge onto Sybbie’s jawline and neck. She whined loudly again. 

“I’ll have porridge in my ears!” She begged. 

“A little snack for later.” Barrow joked softly. Sybbie scoffed, disgusted. 

“Eww!” She bleated. Tom snorted, watching Barrow’s meticulous peddling of porridge. He’d certainly proved his worth in the past five days. 

“Thank you for helping us through this.” Tom said, knowing when to give credit where credit was due… even to someone as rude as Barrow. “You’ve been oddly indispensable.” 

Something strange happened. 

Barrow slowed, his hands coming to an almost stand still. His face paled and expression slackened, eyes drifting off. Sybbie watched, concerned, as Barrow suddenly began to look morose and morbid. She smiled up at him endearingly, even while dripping in porridge. 

“You’re always good!” She urged him. “Not just now.” 

Barrow’s eyes snapped back to the present. He looked down at Sybbie, smiling gently. Tom had never seen him so loving and sweet- it took him aback. Barrow reached up and gently tapped Sybbie’s pug nose with a porridge coated finger. 

“Your’e a sweet girl.” Barrow said softly. He coughed, once again ignoring Tom and focusing solely on his daughter. He coated her thighs with renewed vigor. “Let’s hope this porridge works. Otherwise I’ll have to clean up a tub for nothing.” 

Barrow rose up, heading over to the actual washtub and turning on the tab so as to wash off his hands. As soon as they were clear of porridge, Barrow headed back to Sybbie and her barrel tub to help her stand up on her feet. She now sat on the rim, the porridge cooling and drying onto a film against her skin. 

“Can I help in any way?” Tom asked. Barrow did not answer him at first, returning to the tub to drip water against the tap and wash away remnants of porridge. 

“No.” Barrow finally said, not looking at Tom. Then, quick as lightening, Barrow changed just like nights before and stopped being a prig to turn and say, “But thank you for asking” in a soft tone that hardly suited his image. 

What the hell was with this man? Tom couldn’t figure him out. 

“Try not to get porridge on your trousers.” Barrow joked, “But… if you could help me clean up her barrel tub, I’d appreciate it.” 

“I can do that.” Tom agreed, unbuttoning his cuffs to begin rolling up his shirt sleeves. Barrow headed to the wall where a row of pegs offered everything from house coats to freshly laundered towels. Tom watched, amused, as Barrow plucked up a maids apron from the rungs and threw it over his neck. 

Barrow caught him looking and narrowed his eyes again. 

“Don’t you dare laugh.” He warned coldly as he tied the maid’s apron about his waist. 

“I wouldn’t dare laugh at my child’s favorite nanny.” Tom assured him, eager to get a jab in if he could. Barrow raised a finely arched eyebrow, slightly unamused as he returned to Sybbie and lifted her up into his arms. Naked and dripping with dried clumps of porridge, Sybbie sat perfectly still in Barrow’s arms like a princess from a tale as he carried her over to the tub. She stood in the porcelain basin, still waiting to be washed clean. 

“Now.” Barrow said,taking off his soiled apron and folding it over his naked arm, “We’ll sit here just one moment longer and let it really harden. Then we’ll wash it all off.” 

Sybbie sighed dramatically, slightly impatient. 

Barrow had never been one to lack in ingenuity. Withdrawing a iron scrubbing brush from his apron pocket, he wetted it with the tab from the tub and returned to the wooden barrel to begin scrubbing meticulously at the remaining porridge. With each dab of the water, he took away more porridge. Tom offered a hand, taking over with scrubbing so that Barrow could take his soiled maid’s apron and wash it beneath the tap, wringing out the cloth while Sybbie sat drying at the far end. 

“Do you think it’ll work?” Tom asked to fill up the silence. 

“It did for my mother.” Barrow mused, wringing out the apron one more time. he unfolded it snapping it in the air to hang it back over his neck. He turned, noting Tom scrubbing at the remaining porridge where it still clung to the grooves of the wooden barrel. 

“…Thank you.” Barrow said. “That’s very kind of you.” 

Tom had never heard Barrow thank someone before. He didn’t imagine the man capable of it. To hear it shocked it and Tom glanced up amazed to see Barrow watching him with an oddly soft gaze. Impressed, Tom straightened up and kept his gaze. 

“You’re welcome.” Tom said, tossing the brush into the wooden barrel. “Shall I help you bathe her too?” 

“Please.” Barrow offered. Tom rose up, heading over to the porcelain tub. 

“I’m crusty!” Sybbie said with delight, clearly ready to get clean. 

“Good.” Barrow said with a smile, turning on the tap for real now as he waited for the water to get warm. As soon as it was suitable, he plugged the tub and let it begin to fill. Sybbie sank down, smiling sweetly as Barrow and Tom both began to wash her by hand. The porridge softened and slipped off, falling away to rest at the bottom of the tub in an odd pale slush. With it went some of Sybbie’s dried skin, falling away to reveal healthy peach underneath without a trace of garish pink. 

“Look at that!” Tom beamed at his daughter, “It’s peeling right off!” 

He picked up the bar of lavender soap from its holder but Barrow stopped him with an outstretched hand, meeting his eye across the tub. Up close Tom noted that Barrow’s eyes weren’t actually gray but the palest blue like a dawning sky. He suppose he’d just never been close enough to see it before. 

“No soap.” Barrow directed, “There’s a pitcher of milk by the sink, “Fetch it and we’ll use that instead. Soap is too harsh on her skin right now.” 

Impressed that Barrow had been so meticulous, Tom rose and headed around the tub to see that (sure enough) a ceramic pitcher was waiting by the sink full to the top with fresh cool milk. Tom headed back, pouring the milk in Sybbie’s bath water so that it suddenly became cloudy and white. Barrow repeatedly washed water and milk over her, till she became soothed and closed her eyes. 

“Barrow?” Sybbie spoke up softly. 

“Yes, love.” Barrow just kept washing. Tom watched, amused. 

“Can I drink wine?” Sybbie asked. 

Barrow stopped washing her, perching his elbows on the rim of the tub and cocking his head curious. 

“Why on earth would you want to do that?” Barrow asked, a very good question indeed. 

“The princesses in stories bath in milk and drink wine.” Sybbie said, splashing her toes a bit in the milky water. Tom snorted, in spite of himself. Such a gaelic spirit, she had. 

“And do they get dipped in porridge, I wonder.” Barrow joked softly, taking Sybbie’s chin in his hand. “Stick out your tongue for me?” 

She did so at once, quite complacent. Her tongue looked completely normal. 

“Open your mouth?” Barrow asked. Once again, she did so without complaint, “Wider?” She gaped at him, slack jawed. Barrow narrowed his eyes searching the back of her throat. “Mmm.” He nodded, and Sybbie closed her mouth. “Much better.” 

“Can I drink wine?” She asked again, hopeful. This time she turned to Tom for an answer. 

“That’ll be a no.” Tom chuckled. Sybbie sighed at the injustice of it all. 

“Daddy…” She said after a moment of silent bathing, “Can I come with you to work again?” 

“Of course-!” Tom started to say until he noticed Barrow watching him with narrowed eyes. Clearly he did not approve. “Unless… Nanny disapproves?” 

“Fever spreads fast in a village full of children.” Barrow said after a moment of contemplative silence. “Let it run its course.” 

Barrow had a point; god only knows how many children were sick in the village. If Sybbie returned, fresh from her own illness, she might fall even more ill and he would have only himself to blame. The best thing to do was wait, maybe a week or two, just until the air cleared.

He had to admit, Barrow was rather smart. 

“You’re no fun.” Sybbie mumbled, disappointed in her father’s change of tune. She rested against Barrow’s arms, sighing as she began to drift to sleep. 

 

Tom had a feeling Sybbie would change her tune if she knew how much havoc Barrow had caused downstairs. 

 

 

The rest of the day had Sybbie in bed, resting up after her porridge bath. Barrow spent the time cleaning up the nursery, playroom, and washroom which were all slightly a mess. In an attempt to keep George happy as well, Barrow also took him on a walk around the estate. Tom could hear them as they passed by the library windows where he sat working on estate paperwork. 

“You can’t catch me!” George squealed, “You can’t catch me!” 

Tom heard Barrow laughing heartily, and a flitting shadow past the window showed him sprinting after George only to scoop him up in his arms and take him down to the grass. He was relatively fast for a man who could chain smoke a whole pack of cigarettes. 

 

Dinner brought both Edith, Isobel, and the Dowager over, who’d heard the news of Sybbie’s illness and subsequent recovery and had come to bring a broth recipe that apparently had been passed down by her own nanny in 1830. The idea made Tom’s head spin, and he eyed her favorably as she neatly sliced her beef wellington and dabbled a bit of mayonnaise sauce with her spoon. Incredible how everything she did was somehow elite and fluid even when it involved clumpy mayonnaise and a tiny spoon. 

“How is Sybbie doing?” Lady Grantham asked, tenderly. 

“Much better.” Tom assured them all, and a chorus of relieved sounds filled the air as everyone from the Dowager to Henry smiled. “She had a bath of porridge and milk today. She thought that garnered her a drink of wine.” Everyone chuckled, amused. 

“Her mother had very good taste.” Lord Grantham said proudly from across the table, eyeing Carson’s decanted wine longingly. It was no secret that his palate had had to change after his operation. He could no more drink heavy wine now than Sybbie (though occasionally he had a glass). “She might fair well with a glass.” 

“When I was young children waited until they sat at the table to ask for wine.” The Dowager grumbled, “But I’m old, perhaps things have changed.” 

“I’m hardly pouring her a cup.” Tom beseeched. 

“Yes, well.” The Dowager tutted, goose neck warbling as she spoke, “With Barrow as a nanny who knows what will come next. Perhaps Edith would like to try being a footman, or maybe you’d take a garner at being a doctor-“ 

“I wouldn’t mind being a doctor if I could just remember the terminology.” Tom joked, eager to clear the tension settling upon the table. Why was the woman always gearing up for a fight? Couldn’t she go ten minutes without ripping into someone? The Dowager rolled her eyes.

“I think I’ll leave the role of footman to those who know it best.” Edith added from next to Tom. Against the serving station, Carson raised an eyebrow with clear approval. Andy, on the other hand, kept a straight face never once shifting his eyes to the table. “And for what it’s worth I find Barrow to be an excellent Nanny. He cares deeply for the children and looks to their welfare more than our own Nanny ever did.” 

“He was the one who caught Sybbie’s fever.” Tom added helpfully, thinking of how Barrow had so lovingly cradled Sybbie to his chest even when his own health had been in jeopardy. “If it hadn’t been for him… god knows what would have happened.” 

The Dowager grumbled under her breath, eyebrow shifting. 

“It’s not for long, Mama.” Lord Grantham tried to appease her. 

“Only until Robin Hood is caught!” The Dowager sneered. 

“The police say they’re close.” Lady Grantham agreed. The Dowager just seemed to grow more irritable. 

“Cousin Violet forgets King John was a usurper.” Mrs. Crawley warned from Tom’s other side, smiling warmly at her long time friend. The Dowager watched her through hooded eyes, always on the look out for a stab if she could get one. “A thieving nanny to a good and upstanding house is hardly Robin Hood.” 

“Yes, well, there will be a jail cell for her anyways.” 

“If they catch her.” Lord Grantham warned. “We’re out of a sapphire necklace until they do, and who’s to say she hasn’t sold it off by now. It makes me want to put all our servants through the questionnaire— who else have we let into our house? For all we know Baxter could be a thief and Daisy a revolutionary.” 

Tom almost choked on his beef wellington, shocked that Lord Grantham had strayed so close to the gun. If only he knew how right he was- for Tom was under no illusions about Baxter’s past or Daisy’s own wild streak. He wouldn’t have known Baxter was a thief if it hadn’t been for overhearing a conversation between Baxter and Lady Grantham as he passed by the door to the master suite. He noted that at Lord Grantham’s words Lady Grantham shifted uncomfortably in her seat catching Tom’s eye. 

Tom chewed slowly upon his beef wellington, wondering what to say. But of course, the Dowager knew best. 

“Be thankful for your staff.” The Dowager warned. “When you talk like that I’m tempted to ring for Barrow and have him send you to bed with no supper.” 

Tom snorted under his breath, hiding his laugh with a mouth full of white wine. Across the table, Lord Grantham gave him a sour, dry look.

 

The rest of dinner went without incident, most of the conversation going around the hospital and its new changes in policy and prediction. After brandy and cigars, Tom had headed upstairs with the intent of checking in on Sybbie before he went to bed. It was this time of the night that shed a new view upon the abbey, making her seem bigger than she really was. Without servants walking her passages or family members calling out from rooms, she was as empty and hollow as a warship docked at shore. Upon opening the door the the playroom he found it dark and empty with dollies and blocks tucked away and moonlight shining through the lace curtains. The door to the nursery was wide open and within Tom found Sybbie alone fast asleep; she was still the only child in the nursery. She looked a million yards better from only yesterday and Tom knew that come morning she’d be bouncing around and ready to play again. Barrow’s rocking chair was empty, which was odd. Usually during this hour of the night he was sitting mending clothes or. Tom wondered if Barrow was out back having a quick smoke but reasoned against it. It didn’t seem in Barrow’s nature to leave Sybbie alone. The door to the washroom was slightly ajar, an odd flickering light coming from within, and though Tom had no reason to be tense he’d all but tip toed over wondering what was going on in inside. He’d peeked through the crack in the door to see, sure enough, Barrow crouched upon the floor. For reasons that only Barrow could explain, he sat with a ouija board and a lit candle. 

“…Please…” Barrow whispered into the darkened washroom, “Please, darling. Say something to me. Anything.” 

After a long minute of waiting, Barrow said again, “Anything at all.” 

But the planchette beneath his fingertips remained stationary and Barrow bowed his head in miserable defeat.


	7. Cool Blue Reason

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas and Bates enjoy a tango.  
> With their fists.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone is enjoying this fic. We're really about to crank up the heat in the next couple of chapters. Hang on to your pantyhose! Thank you so much to my readers and reviewers- I hope that you'll get a real kick out of this chapter.

Sybbie’s rash became a memory of the distant past, but Thomas’ role as the strange new nanny stayed on.

It was mid-December now, and the fall and brought Thomas very little change save for the fact that he was now a ghost downstairs, not upstairs. While he’d grown to become a familiar face to Lady Mary and Lady Edith, he’d barely spoken two words to Bates or Carson in the past month. As a result, Dr. Kinsey’s hopes for open communication had dwindled and Thomas’ attitude towards the others had become stony. He didn’t want to talk to the servants, he didn’t want to exist with the servants. They weren’t his family, they weren’t his friends, they didn’t care about him. The only people that did care about him were Sybbie, George, and Marigold… so that’s where Thomas wanted to be.

Now, trailing behind the family as Lady Edith lead a long walk across the grounds telling tales of a new life in London, Thomas realized Marigold would soon be taken from his fingers. He held Marigold in his arms as Sybbie and George swarmed about his feet with Tiaa the puppy. She looked fretful, as if knowing her mother was about to take her from the only home she’d ever known, so Thomas pecked and kissed her brow, whispering loving things in her ear.

“Don’t worry.” Thomas soothed softly, “There will be flowers to pick in London. There’s flowers to pick everywhere, you know.”

Carson lead a small picnic with Andy, and while Lady Mary consoled a rather glum looking Mr. Talbot by the wishing wall Thomas instead focused his time by the pond’s edge where Sybbie and George brought him frogs to inspect. They seemed to be intent on making a collection, surrounding Thomas and Marigold with frogs that desperately attempted to hop off the minute they were set down. Depending upon the moment, Thomas was therefore either completely surrounded by frogs or merely holding host to one or two. In a thin second, Branson walked over and took advantage of the clear grass to sit at Thomas’ side.

This was another odd happening.

Despite not exactly having a friendship with Branson before, After Sybbie’s fever Branson had seemed changed. No longer assuming the worst about Thomas, he instead seemed to be trying for a new leaf. Thomas was more than happy to let it unfold, eager to leave his ugly past behind him, but what lay ahead? He didn’t see himself being Branson’s bezzie, the pair of them twiddling their thumbs while waiting to please the family hand and foot… but it wouldn’t do to make enemies- no… No. Thomas was unsure of what Branson wanted and it made him nervous like a horse easily frightened by a gun. He just wanted to know flat up front what Branson wanted. That and nothing more.

And lucky for him, Branson was walking over.

Intrigued by Thomas’ sudden collection of frogs, Branson took a seat next to Thomas and watched as Sybbie and George continued to bring him frogs. A particularly bulbous toad croaked pitifully on Thomas’ lap, eager to be let go and freed back to his home. It warbled, slipped off of Thomas’ thigh, and made a bee line for the edge of the pond. Before the toad could make it back into the depths, George scooped it up and put it right into Thomas’ breast pocket. Legs folded, bleary eyes blinking back up at Thomas’ chin, the toad gave another meagre croak before at last falling silent.

Branson reached over, perhaps intent on taking the toad physically from Thomas’ pocket. Thomas stopped him, jerking back slightly with Marigold still on his knee. Branson watched, curious, as Thomas reached up and took the toad out. It was slimy, cold, and incredibly ugly. Marigold grimaced, squirming away from it. He set it back down on the grass, watching as it once again made a bee line for the pond’s edge.

It got away clean this time; George was distracted by a dragonfly.

“Are you alright?” Branson asked.

 _Alright_. What did it mean to be alright. To be normal? To be accepted? To be heterosexual and married with a child?

“I mean to say.” Branson carried on in the silence. “You seem a bit blue.”

“I’m not.” Thomas lied.

“You’re lying.” Branson called him out. Irritated, Thomas slowly turned to his left to glare at Branson. He did not glare back. By the pond’s edge, the toad slipped back into the water. “You lie all the time. Why do you do that?”

Thomas turned back to the pond, watching George and Sybbie at play. They would need a new change of shoes and socks after this to remain without a cold.

“Children lie when they’re punished for telling the truth.” Thomas said. How many times had he lied to his father for the very same reason… praying not to be hit.

“You can’t let that effect you as an adult.”

Oh well how very easy of Branson to say, now it simply must be true. How very good of him to point out the facts, “Rise above your circumstances. You never say thank you either, you can start with that.”

“I see,” Thomas spat in a rush, voice never rising above a whisper lest he offend the children, “Is today _‘Bite Thomas Barrow’s Nose Off Day’_ and no one’s bothered to remind me?”

“I only think you could do with some hard earned truths.” Branson whispered back, desperate to keep his own voice down. The pair of them were having an argument in silence, quite a feat, “You’ve suffered enough for them already.”

Oh pish posh.

 

Later that day, Thomas sat gritting his teeth and twisting his fingers, jiggling his foot wildly while he talked to Dr. Kinsey on the telephone in Mr. Carson’s office. Outside he could hear the one and only making small talk with Mrs. Hughes.

 _“That must have been slightly hurtful,”_ Dr. Kinsey mused on the other end. Was it his imagination or did Dr. Kinsey sound disappointed in Branson, _“To feel like Tom thinks you ungrateful.”_

“Why must I say thank you for normalcies that everyone else takes for granted?” He seethed, “Why can’t I just live like the rest of them do? With good coming and going-“

_“You know, toast is delicious even without butter and jam-“_

“No it’s not.” Thomas grumbled, “It’s dry and disgusting.”

_“Well butter and jam do make it taste better.”_

“What are you getting at.”

_“I don’t know about you but I am a horrible hoarder of the butter.”_

Butter, butter, butter… what did it mean. Dr. Kinsey was always playing these- oh but of course.

“You want me to butter them up.” Thomas said, and he wondered if the disgust showed in his voice.

_“I want you to stop forcing a diet of stale toast. You deserve all the jam in the world, all the butter you can stomach, but first you must fill the pot. Consider it like a piggy bank. For each thropping you put in, a thropping stays there. There may come a time when you need to withdraw some money from the bank. Best to have savings at the ready, don’t you think?”_

He wasn’t the one to talk. He’d given all his money to smuggler for flour mixed with cement paste.

He fumed as he marched down the halls of the ground floor, wondering at all the butter and jam he saw- all the fucking fake butter and jam. Made in fake little churners with fake little pressers and fake little bits of sugar and milk- fake fake fake! What would it take to get some real affection around here? Some real love and real acceptance? Did such a thing even exist in 1926 England? He wasn’t sure. The thought made his nauseas.

As he walked by he passed the boot room and found it occupied by Baxter, Anna and Andy. He paused, glancing in on the three of them and wondered at Baxter. She polished one of Lady Grantham’s walking shoes with vigor, not even looking up from her work as sunlight filtered through her nutmeg hair and warmed her dress.

The one bit of real butter in the house.

She glanced up and saw him standing there. She smiled, but Thomas noticed just how fucking exhausted she was; how even when she smiled she was grimacing all because of him.

The butter was turning fake.

Thomas shook his head and turned away, walking down the hall towards the staircase.

The pressure was mounting.  
The marbles were staring to roll.  
Like a bomb getting ready to go off, his brain started sending him warning signals.

 _Move_ , the marbles hissed, _Move and run. The time is nigh_.

 

Upstairs, the children needed tending to. Sybbie and George needed their shoes and socks changed, Marigold had a wet nappy, and apparently there was a foreign diplomat visiting from Iceland.

He was the diplomat.

It took very little convincing from Sybbie for Thomas to make up a tray composed of one of their nicer tea sets (the Blushing Floret, 1812) with a rather neutered tea loaded in milk and sugar. It was almost like drinking syrup to Thomas but he didn’t mind. Biscuits and little cakes on a tray, Thomas served the children just as he would a group of adults, and found it very soothing until damn Tom Branson stormed through the door with a big oafish Irish grin on his face.

“Ah! Tea party!” Branson said delighted, waving a hand at the three children by his feet who stuffed cake and biscuits into their milk stained mouths. In the corner Thomas took a slow bitter sip of his highly sweetened tea- god how he hated when it had milk and sugar in it. “May I join?”

“Yes Pwease!” George urged, and so Branson sat down next to Sybbie to take her into his lap. He shared a sip of her tea and gave Thomas a disgusted look as if to say _“Bloody Awful Stuff This”_. Mildly amused at Branson’s discomfort, Thomas raised a finely arched eyebrow.

“Everyone is proper.” Sybbie proclaimed, “Barrow is a visiting foreign diplomat from Iceland.” She waved a hand to Thomas who lifted his over sugary cup to Branson in silent salute. “You are now the King of Ireland.”

“Officially.” Thomas sneered softly into his teacup.

“An’ I wear me crown with pride I do!” Branson proclaimed in an accent so thick one might have to hack at it with an axe to get through. “So ring yer butler for tea, lass.” But quick as a flee he dropped the accent to speak normally to Thomas, “Speaking of butlers, something rather odd happened the other night. Carson spilt wine.”

To some, this might not seem rather odd, but Carson was meticulous and neat, groomed within an inch of his life, and hadn’t so much as dropped a dab of steak sauce in the decades of servitude under the Crawleys. If he was dropping wine- sacred decanted wine- something was up.

“Odd.” Thomas muttered, setting his tea cup down. Sybbie put another sugar cube in his cup, and he rolled his eyes towards the heavens. The things he did for these precious children.

“Only I wondered if you’d seen anything.”

“Nothing.” Thomas admitted, “I’ve been hiding up here, and anyway Carson keeps his cards close to his chest.”

“As do you.” Branson teased, “You’ve hardly said a word since our little talk by the pond.” Thomas looked away, making the brief mistake of attempting to take a sip of tea. He nearly choked on it for how sweat it was and immediately sat the cup back down, “Did you take my advice.”

“Perhaps I did.” Thomas refused to give sway.

“Perhaps you learned something?” Branson offered with a smile. Who did he think he was, Plato?

“Perhaps I didn’t.” Thomas sneered. Branson looked away, put off.

“Well,” Branson muttered, “Try, try again I suppose.”

Oh yes, just try until your eyes bled and your arms fell off. This whole situation was all Thomas’ fault. “I doubt you’d say that if you knew.”

“Then tell me.” Branson approached everything with a ‘head on’ attitude. It often left Thomas feeling startled and confused.

“I can’t.” Thomas flustered, imagining the sneer upon Branson’s handsome face when he heard Thomas had tried to off himself. The idea made his stomach squirm with shame.

“Why not?”

“Wouldn’t be proper.” Was the only excuse Thomas could offer. There was no way in hell he was telling Branson his darkest secrets in front of the children- innocent children who’d never heard the word ‘suicide’ spoken by an adult. Their childhood deserved to remain untainted for as long as possible, and Thomas would not consent to a part of the inevitable sledgehammer that knocked the wall of innocence down.

Sybbie untucked her lace handkerchief from her lap and passed it over so that it now decorated Thomas’ lap instead. He blinked down at it confused.

“There.” She declared, “Now you’re proper.”

 

The mysteries just kept growing, from Carson spilling wine, to Lady Edith ringing close to midnight and asking for his lordship. Thomas couldn’t make heads of tails of it, but sure enough the next day when he went down to collect tea for the children and himself he found Mr. Carson practically buzzing with energy and eager to get everyone at the same table. Unsure of why he was being summoned when, as far as he knew, the earth wasn’t cracking and the sun was still in the sky, Thomas sat down in his old seat across from Baxter with wary regard. He no longer wore his uniform, able to come and go in a day suit as a nanny to the children, and so though he was swarmed in black and white he himself sported the same blue pinstripe suit he’d once worn to the fated Thirsk fair of 1920. Shirtsleeves rolled up the elbows and his top button unbuttoned, Thomas was much more relaxed than his co-workers. For how he gritted his teeth and glared though, he was ready to chew on a nail. Amazing how that worked out.

“Attention everybody!” Carson called out, catching the gaze of everyone from Andy, to the maids, to Mrs. Hughes herself as she took her seat next to Thomas. “I wanted to announce this when we were all taking our tea together.” He clapped his hands together, rubbing and squeezing his meaty fingers with dark eyes sparkling like fireworks. “Lady Edith has been asked to wed by His Grace the Marquess of Hexam and will be going up to Brancaster Castle to announce the engagement this Friday-!” Of course, the rest of the sentence was broken off as rounds of delighted sighs and calls engulfed the table. Anna and Baxter beamed, swapping glances with one another. Even Andy looked chuffed, which was odd because he really hadn’t been in the family for about a year now so what did he care. Of course, Mrs. Hughes was close to tears, a hand to her breast as she sighed and twittered away.

“I’ll get some sandwiches and fruit!” Mrs. Patmore declared in a celebratory mood, turning from the hall to trot back into the kitchen in order to whip up something worthy of Lady Edith’s good news.

“His lordship and her ladyship will both be going up with them.” Mr. Carson explained, to which Baxter and Bates shared another glance. So that would explain why Lady Edith had called the other night.

Thomas shifted a little in his seat, noting that a very odd sensation was starting to spread from his stomach into his chest and neck. He shifted again, trying to get it to go away. It felt like he was suddenly over sensitized, aware of every tremble, every breath in his body. It was not a pleasant feeling.

“That’s such wonderful news. She’s had such a hard time in life, I really hope this improves things for her.” Anna said to the table at large, though it was Bates who replied first.

“She deserves happiness.” He agreed, “Lord Hexam will certainly give it to her.”  
Did Thomas read a second comment into that, or was he just being paranoid.

“It seems like everyone now is spreading their wings.” Mrs. Hughes said, her eyes practically twinkling with tears.  
Was _everyone_ spreading their wings?

“How true.” Mr. Carson agreed.

“It seems like dreams are coming true everywhere.” Baxter said, “Mr. Moseley is a teacher, the Bates are expecting, Lady Edith’s getting married-“

“I passed my tests!” Daisy added, to a round of gay laughter. She brought with her a tray of fruit and sandwiches, which she lay in the middle of the table so that all could take from it. At once, Andy stuffed several pasties into his mouth, delighted. Thomas alone refrained from laughter, that odd hypersensitive feeling making him wonder if he might vomit any second now. Why was his heart pounding so hard in his chest?

“Justice is sweet.” Bates said, taking a sandwich with his tea. “Those that do good ought to receive good.”

There is was again.  
Thomas brought a hand up to his mouth, coughing slightly into his fingers. Just a small, soft thing. Something to steady his nerves. He probably shouldn’t be drinking tea. It was too caffeinated. Thomas realized that he was chewing on his thumbnail and stopped, knowing Carson would yell at him if he was caught.

Why were his finger’s trembling?

“Is something the matter, Thomas?” Anna asked. Startled, Thomas looked around, shocked to see that he’d caught the attention of quite a few people. Bates was glaring at him, as was Carson- Baxter was simply watching to see what he would do.

“Perhaps he’s feeling some guilt.” Bates mused, taking a sip of tea.

“Nothing ungenerous.” Anna urged her husband. To this, she added, “Don’t worry, something will turn up.” To Thomas.

“What?” Thomas asked, genuinely confused. What was she talking about.

“Well-“ Anna offered, “Your job search of course.”

Job…search? Was…  
Was he still searching for a job? He could have sworn he had one as a Nanny- but-

“And now you can add nanny to your skill list!” Andy added in good humor, causing several of the day maids and the lone hall boy to laugh.

Mrs. Patmore came back in from the kitchen, offering a fresh pot of tea. She made a round, refilling cups, and paused when she saw that Thomas hadn’t even touched his own despite it being garnished with honey and lemon while piping hot— his favorite.

“Oh, don’t get soggy again-“ Mrs. Patmore huffed at him, passing over his still-full tea cup, “This is a time of good news. Try to be happy for Lady Edith, your time in the sun will come.”

“That’s right!” Anna piped up from across the table, offering him a pleasant smile, “You’ll find a position in a good house and can have a good clean proper start- you’ll be able to get your new coworkers on your side.”

But it had never been about a side- it had never been Thomas’ intention to try and get people on his side for the sake of a tally count— he’d just wanted a friend. He’d just wanted someone to hear him in his pain and to honestly care about him, was that so much to ask?

Flustered, Thomas remained silent unsure what to say.

“It might do you good to get away from here.” Baxter mused. Thomas stared at her affronted, feeling betrayed. How could she say that when she knew how much he loved the children? “To make friends-“

Because apparently he couldn’t make friends here-

“You certainly can’t stay nanny here forever.” Bates said with a soft dry sneer, “It’s ridiculous-

“Okay.” Thomas spluttered out, a soft verbal warning that the pressure in his head was growing. If he could get out now, slip out into the back and blow off some steam, all would be well. If the pressure just kept mounting-?

“It might do you good to look into the papers.” Mr. Carson said, taking an enormous sip of tea before sighing and setting his cup back down. “Just to see what’s available elsewhere again.”

“Okay.” Thomas said, a little more rushed this time.

“Maybe if you start doing good, good will come to you.” Bates chimed in, to which everyone nodded in agreement (even Baxter). “You might even garner a life. You can hardly call what you’re doing now living-“

“Okay!” Thomas snapped, exploding with all the pressure of a pipe bomb. At once, the humored happy atmosphere of Lady Edith’s wedding engagement was shot straight to hell as the whole room fell silent and tense. Thomas realized that he’d just screamed out loud in a group full of people, and bristled.

“Amazing how you’re always the victim.” Bates muttered, rolling his eyes. He was the only one who did not look nervous. “We’re trying to have a good time, and you spoil it because it’s-“

“That’s not-!” Thomas nearly exploded again, but clamped down on his tongue at the last minute to keep from bursting into a tirade. He needed to walk, he needed air, he needed to run as far away from this damn house as possible before it put him in an early grave.

“…Perhaps you should take a walk.” Mrs. Hughes offered softly, her voice like a breath of wind in his air.

“Yeah.” Thomas spat with more too much venom. He rose up, not even bothering to push his chair in as he left the table. He stormed down the hall to the back area, far too aware of the world around him. He pushed open the door and strode out into the faint afternoon light. For every breath that he took, his heart only seemed to pound more till it was practically a drum beat in his ear. He walked at a brisk pace, once hand on his hip, another pressed to his neck. The side lawn of Downton offered rolling hills and large willow trees that swayed in the December wind. Thomas took shelter underneath one, the back of his vest scraping against the bark as he slid down and hit the grass.

He took in one shaky breath, then another, trying to get a hold of himself.

For a moment he was completely alone, and pressed the heel of his palms to his burning eyes as he tried to swallow his shame with self defense. If they’d just left him alone- if they’d just stopped nagging-!

But the jingling of a dog collar broke across his train of thought, only to be followed by a cold wet nose and an eager snout working its way under the crook of his arm. Tiaa seemed to be taking her afternoon walk, eager to play with him as she stood up on her hind legs to lick at his chin and cheek. Usually he was quite at ease with the dog- just now though he wished she’d leave him alone.

“Thomas?”

“Oh god-“ Thomas groaned bitterly; Branson was approaching, trilby hat and dog leash in hand. He wiped his face hastily but his cheeks were still flushed and his face distressed. “Thomas what on earth’s happened?” Branson asked, stopping before him so that Tiaa now bounded back and forth between his ankles and Thomas’ lap.

“What’s happened?” Thomas scoffed, voice quavering. He looked away out over the far reaches of estate where the woods of York turned everything a dark mossy green. “What’s happened is that Lady Edith is getting married because she’s good and deserves good- and I- I am going to die in a ditch somewhere. I can’t stay here, apparently, with the children I love-“ Thomas gestured a hand out behind him, scraping the tree, “Because I am evil, and selfish, and I deserve to be deprived of them.” He clenched his jaw tight as he spoke, “I don’t have anything. Anna’s having a baby, and Moseley has his classroom, and I have nothing… Because I deserve it.” He licked his lips them closed his mouth, still refusing to look at Branson who’d gone very quiet.

He squatted down next to Thomas. Tiaa whined and stood up on her hind legs again, nuzzling Thomas’ flushed neck and cheek.

“As… Bates… saintly Bates… so fucking knows.” Thomas mumbled at last. He sniffed, closing his eyes.

“What brought this on?” Branson asked at long last. He was far from accusatory, indeed he sounded quite concerned.

“I don’t know!” Thomas implored, looking back around to find Branson staring at him unsure. He supposed he must paint a funny picture, Thomas Barrow the broken and beleaguered instead of Thomas Barrow the proud and pompous. “They were all talking! About how lovely it was, how nice life was- meanwhile I…” Thomas flustered, breaking off, “I can’t find my way forward. And they know that!” Thomas raked a hand through his hand, his fingers pulling away stinking of pomade, “And they were just ignoring it. Ignoring me. Like they always do.” He looked away again, back out over the forest. Funny how he couldn’t look a man in the eye when he admitted such things.

“Thomas…” Branson said, sounding quite disappointed. Thomas’ cheeks began to flush again, “You have to find a way to voice your needs without knocking people out of their socks. If they’d known they were upsetting you, they would have stopped-“

“Yes but see, it’s not my place to say if I’m upset.” Thomas snapped, incredibly frustrated, “I have to sit there and take it-“ he pointed a finger to the ground, “Otherwise I’ll spoil everyone’s good time.”

“I think you’re over estimating your input.” Branson offered, “I doubt you’d spoil all that.”

Tiaa liked him on the cheek again.

“Tiaa doubts it too.” Branson said for good measure.

“Don’t bring the dog into this.” Thomas mumbled softly, burying his face into his knees to block out the world.

“Look, you’re having a hard time.” Branson didn’t sound unsympathetic, “Everyone has hard times. You have to pick yourself up by your bootstraps-!”

“I can’t!” Oh what an easy thing to say ‘pick yourself up’, ‘carry on’, ‘stop complaining’, ‘be normal’, “I can’t. I’m tired, I don’t have the energy- I always pick myself up but I can’t do it anymore. I can’t.” Thomas buried his face back into his knees again, “I can’t lie, and I can’t do it.”

Suddenly the urge to take a knife to his neck was starting to blossom once again in the back of his mind. The idea of finding some trunk in the attic, pulling it out and climbing inside so that he could be locked away and never found suddenly making him feel ice cold all over.

“I am the victim.” Thomas whispered to his thighs, “Bates may not want to see it but I am the victim. How can I not be when I hurt so bad? When I hurt all the time?”

Branson had nothing to say to this. Maybe he was stumped, or maybe he didn’t care either. The thought made Thomas feel stupid, for sitting out here beneath this tree and whining to a man who wasn’t really even his friend. He looked back up out at the fields of green and wiped his eyes one last time heaving a bitter sigh.

“What am I doing?” Thomas mumbled to himself, “Sitting here, whining to you like you even care.”

“Maybe I do care?” Branson murmured.

“Oh go fly a kite.” Thomas wouldn’t stand to be lied to. He rose up from the grass, dusting himself off before he ruined his suit, and left both Branson and Tiaa beneath the willow tree. That night he did not return downstairs and instead stayed resolutely locked in the nursery with the children.

The next morning, Thomas could tell something had shifted in the atmosphere once again. Everyone seemed back to avoiding him, even the maid that brought the children’s meals and a change in laundry. She wouldn’t meet his eye, barely even offered a curtsey before she left scampering back down the hall to the green baize door. It prompted yet another call to Dr. Kinsey, simply because Thomas felt like he was going out of his mind with the urge to lock himself in a trunk in the attic. He told Dr. Kinsey none of this though, instead regaling the argument from yesterday and how Thomas had promptly shut down a celebration over his own personal baggage with the world.

“I just…” Thomas mumbled, rubbing his brow where an ache was beginning to form. On the other end of the line, Dr. Kinsey waited patiently. “It just went wrong. I couldn’t stop myself.”

_“It must have hurt deeply to hear them mention a job search- to realize you still couldn’t stay.”_

“I don’t want to leave.” Thomas admitted, knowing full well that hardly mattered in the grand scheme of things.

 _“Of course you don’t.”_ Dr. Kinsey sympathized, _“You love the children, and the staff. You want to be around the people you love. But it’s difficult for them to know you love them when you’re yelling at them.”_

“They bully me!” Thomas protested.

_“How?”_

“They just- push me out the door!” It was all incredibly unfair, “Thomas do this, Thomas do that- Thomas find another job and stop being the nanny-!”

 _“I see.”_ Dr. Kinsey said after a pause, _“What a horrid situation.”_

“What do I do?” Thomas asked, feeling trapped and defenseless once again. He hid behind Dr. Kinsey like a trusted shield.

_“Well I think the first thing you need to do is let the others know that you had your feelings hurt so that way they can be aware.”_

“I can’t do that.” It was a lurid concept, to imagine himself sitting down at the servant’s table and proclaiming to the others, ‘Attention all, my feelings were hurt yesterday. Please apologize so that I might feel loved and accepted once more.’ “It’s too… it’s too…”

 _“Forward?”_ Dr. Kinsey supplied.

“Rude.” Thomas added.

_“How is alerting them to your feelings rude?”_

Once again, Thomas found himself confronted by a man who wouldn’t take ‘no’ for an answer. It was infuriating.

“Because-“ He stuttered, “They’re mine?”

_“I see.” _There was a pause, no doubt where Dr. Kinsey was scribbling away feverishly on his clipboard at home, _“Do you feel like your feelings have less worth because they’re yours?”_ __

This conversation was bordering dangerously close to a subject Thomas did not want to broach. Desperate to end it now before everything went to hell, Thomas let out a stuttering cough to say, “I have to go-“

 _“Thomas, wait-!”_ Dr. Kinsey tried to say. Before he could get out another word Thomas hung up the phone.

Talk about a “close call”.

 

In an attempt to steady himself, Thomas spent the rest of the next and the next morning upstairs with the children. George had developed a small fever, the colder weather never agreeing with him; Thomas fed him a chicken broth soup and lit a fire in the nursery so that by the end of it Marigold took a nap on the hearth with no need for a blanket and Sybbie made shadow puppets on the wall with her fingers. George, of course, was passed out. Thomas spent his time with Sybbie, showing her how to wiggle her fingers so that her shadow puppet dog looked like it was barking. The pair of them had quite a bit of fun, making everything from rabbits to cats that chased one another and made ridiculous noises. All this might have gone on for hours had it not been for the gentle rapping upon the playroom door that opened wide to reveal-

“Dr. Kinsey-!” Thomas spluttered, staggering to his feet to leave Sybbie and Marigold upon the floor.

His first thought was that he was now in some sort of trouble after hanging up on Dr. Kinsey yesterday. Perhaps Dr. Kinsey had traveled to Downton to give him a scolding. But that didn’t seem right, because Dr. Kinsey was smiling- beaming actually- and didn’t seem the least bit angry with him as he took off his trilby hat and ran a few fingers through his dark brown hair. Thomas didn’t know what to say, and spluttered as Dr. Kinsey placed his hat over his heart.

“I tried to tell you last night-“ Dr. Kinsey chuckled in that good natured way, “I had a meeting with Dr. Clarkson this morning and wanted to pop in on you afterward.” He tisked, wagging a finger at Thomas in mirth, “That’s what you get when you hang up the phone. You miss vital information.”

Thomas would be lying if he’d claimed to not feel slightly guilty.

“Um…” Thomas scratched at the back of his neck, shuffling his feet. Sybbie watched, highly intrigued.

“And who are these charming children?” Dr. Kinsey asked kindly, looking from Sybbie to George. He already knew Marigold, of course.

“This is Sybil Branson. Sybbie.” Thomas gestured, allowing Sybbie to toddle at his knees as he held her from behind and gently petted her nutmeg hair. “Tom Branson’s daughter.”

“How do you do,” Dr. Kinsey offered her his hand, and she shook it after a moment looking quite shy.

“Hello.” She said meekly.

“This is Dr. Kinsey, a very smart man.” Thomas introduced her, smiling down at her.

“Oh I wouldn’t go that far.” Dr. Kinsey assured her, “I’m merely perceptive and don’t like to take ‘no’ for an answer.”

Thomas rolled his eyes; if only Sybbie could know how accurate that statement was.

“And who is this?” Dr. Kinsey asked, stepping around George’s bed to find him sleeping peacefully upon his pillow.

“That is Master George Crawley.” Thomas said, “The heir to this estate and the son of the late heir Matthew Crawley and Lady Mary.”

“My goodness, he’s a looker.” Dr. Kinsey chortled. “He’ll break hearts when he’s older.”

“He’s already broken mine.” Thomas joked. “He rules me with a rod of iron.”

Dr. Kinsey seemed to find this all very amusing, and winked at Thomas as he passed. Back in the playroom, Dr. Kinsey gestured to the open door of the hallway.

“Shall we take a walk?” Dr. Kinsey asked.

“The children-“ Thomas gestured to the three of them, but Dr. Kinsey it seemed had been expecting this. Out of the hallway came a maid, who pursed her lips tightly at the sight of Thomas to step around them both and shepherd Sybbie away from the nursery door.

“…Right.” Thomas muttered. The maid closed the door to the nursery, and suddenly it was just Thomas and Dr. Kinsey in the playroom.

They headed out and walked downstairs through the green baize door, taking their time and going at a leisurely pace. As they walked, they talked, and suddenly the phone conversations were replaced by a physical one Thomas could not escape from.

“So the new communication is not working out.” Dr. Kinsey said, though he didn’t sound disappointed.

“I don’t want to communicate with them anymore.” Thomas muttered. “I just want to be left alone.”

“I understand, but remember.” Dr. Kinsey warned, “You’re working in this house, you can’t avoid the people it houses. It’s best that you have something healthy in place instead of something negative.”

Thomas tried walking faster but Dr. Kinsey was surprisingly agile and could easily keep up.

“What would you like it to be?” Dr. Kinsey asked. “If you could have anything-“

“But that’s just the point. I don’t want anything, I don’t like these people-“

“Now I hardly think that’s true.”

Their trek took them right past the servant’s hall, but instead of walking out the back area door, Dr. Kinsey paused and tipped his head to those that were sitting having tea. It wasn’t really a large crew, just Andy, Baxter, Anna, Bates, Daisy, and for some odd reason Mr. Moseley who seemed to have come up again to keep Baxter company. They didn’t look pleased to see Thomas or Dr. Kinsey. They didn’t even smile at him. Dr. Kinsey paused, noting the frigid atmosphere, and kept his hat over his heart as Baxter alone turned around in her chair to smile at Thomas.

Her attitude was forced. Even Thomas could tell she wasn’t happy with him.

“Thomas…” She greeted him, “How is Dr. Kinsey.”

Thomas glanced at Dr. Kinsey, taking the man in. His complexion seemed healthy enough.

“Fine, I presume.” Thomas mumbled, ready to head for the back door. Even staying around the group for more than a minute made him feel incredibly sick- like that tension inside of him was-

“Typical of you not to ask about others.” Bates sneered, setting his teacup down. “Don’t you ever get tired of being a thorn in our sides?”

Yes, yes, that was just perfect. Get him downstairs for less than a second and look what happened-!

“Oh my god-“ Thomas spat, wheeling around. Baxter’s eyes widened reflexively. “Five minutes!” Thomas spat at Bates, wondering if the man could even tell time, “I need you to leave me alone, for five minutes! Can you do that? Can you be an adult; hmm?!” Thomas gestured wildly, lips pursed into a thin white line. At his side, Dr. Kinsey watched, tense and aware. “Can you remember that I haven’t had the best year and that I really don’t need you pushing me? Is it possible or does my lowly existence not grace the list of Saint Bates’ many priorities?”

It felt good to vent, but he knew it was about to bite him in the ass. Bates was glaring at him viciously, so he glared right back. Caught between them, Anna looked quite tense.

“Don’t be harsh-“ Anna urged. But this just made Thomas laugh, though it was hardly from amusement. Typical Anna- typical everyone-! Bates was the victim and Thomas was the perpetrator of violence and cruelty even though Bates was the one who had started this particular argument! Amazing. Splendid.

“Oh, I’m the harsh one? Meanwhile your husband the pope gets to call the shots about who’s allowed through the gates of heaven?” Thomas spluttered, somehow smiling though he couldn’t say why, “You know, I have children that love me.” Thomas sneered at Bates, whose expression of icy indifference never shifted, “That I’d gladly die for, but you don’t see that. You’ll never see that because the minute you admit that I have worth in the eyes of others is the minute you have to admit the way you’re treating me is wrong! And you can never be wrong! Because your ‘Mr. Bates’!” Thomas sauntered his hips at this. Mr. Bates, Mr. Bates, Mr. Bates- why didn’t they just give him the title of Earl and be done with it?

“Thomas-“ Baxter whispered, using her hands as if hoping to make him physically simmer down.

Thomas jumped as Dr. Kinsey placed a hand upon his shoulder. He looked around to find the good doctor watching him with wary regard.

“Count to five.” Dr. Kinsey murmured.

Bitter, shaking, Thomas slowly counted to five in his head. He pinched the bridge of his nose tight, realizing just how vicious and vapid he’d sounded to the others. Dear god no wonder they all wanted him dead. But the thought just made him angrier, and he had to wrestle with anger and guilt as he took a long breath through his nose and out through his mouth.

“It’s fine.” He muttered bitterly. “I’m fine. I’m fine-“ He raised his hands up as if to gesture in defeat. “See? Completely fine.” but Dr. Kinsey was still looking at him like he might go for the knife drawer at any moment. “Don’t look at me like that. I can hardly go off the deep end when I have children to look after.”

But this made Bates laugh, a dry humorless chuckle as he sneered, “What’ll your excuse be when you’re no longer nanny, I wonder? Razor too dull?”

A hot icy rage flooded Thomas’ senses unlike nothing he’d felt since that infuriating Gwen’s stupid luncheon. The blood drained from his face, and before he could stop himself, he exploded upon Bates with all the force of a charge of dynamite.

“Who the hell do you think you are?!” Thomas demanded, voice rising loudly in self-indulgent rage. How dare he make fun of what happened in July- how dare he? When he knew absolutely nothing about Thomas’ suffering? When he didn’t even care? Bates rose from his chair, cane scraping against the floor as he leaned against the table instead. He looked murderous.

“I ran this house as first footman and cared for his lordship as Valet at the same time long before you hobbled in, and ‘ll have you know I did it all without rubbing his elbows! Without rubbing anyone’s elbows!” Thomas spat, wiping a savage hand aside, “You didn’t have a reference, you didn’t have experience, you didn’t even have a bloody interview! You didn’t do anything! You just walked off the bloody train and took a job that wasn’t even yours because Lord Grantham was your front runner!” With this, Thomas pointed to himself, “I had a reference! I had experience! I went through the interview- four of them in fact! I worked my ass off to get my initial job here- and I kept it all through your bullshit!” He swiped a savage hand over his hair- it was starting to lose its hold and become frayed. “Now I juggle the roles of footman, and valet, and under butler in a house that hates my very existence all while dealing with Carson’s incessant prejudice, and I take care of three kids-!!” Thomas counted off the facts like flies upon his fingers. “OH!” He cried out, throwing his hands up into the air to let them slap against his sides as they fell, “But it’s so lucky for me that I have you around to tie my shoes! Thank you Mr. Bates! Thank you for tying my undeserving shoes!”

“What is going on in here?” Mrs. Hughes demanded, stepping in from the hallway and looking quite alarmed. “All this shouting and carrying about-“

“Oh nothing out of the usual-!” Thomas gestured at Bates angrily, “Just Saint Bates casting me into the wicked fires of sinners for not being good enough!”

“Meanwhile you’re getting in jabs everywhere you can-“ Bates snapped, his own voice having grown quite loud to keep up with Thomas’ “Does it ever get lonely on your little island?”

“Like I can drop my hands with you around?!” Thomas demanded, “Every time I walk in the room you have something shitty to say- you’re the reason I sunk so low!” Thomas pointed a vindictive finger at the man, “You’re the reason-!”

“Thomas- that is enough-“ Mrs. Hughes interjected, stepping between Thomas and Bates to force his arm down. Thomas suddenly realized that he was shaking like mad, practically vibrating in his anger. “You’re going to give yourself an anxiety attack if you keep this up, you’re not even making any sense-“

“He’s the reason-!” Thomas beseeched, “He was making jokes about what happened this summer-!”

“I’m sure he didn’t-“ Mrs. Hughes beseeched, but it just served to make Thomas madder. Everyone in the room had heard it, but of course no one was going to back him up because that would mean taking Bates side over Thomas’ and when had anyone ever done that?

“He just did two seconds before you walked into the room!” Thomas cried out, quite upset. “He just did it! He said ‘What’ll your excuse be when you’re no longer nanny’, talking about me holding off from the deep end!”

“I’m sure he was just-“ Mrs. Hughes protested, but Thomas cut her off with an audible roar of disbelief. Here was the proof right before their eyes, and none of them wanted to look at it! It was damn unbelievable!

“Always an excuse for him, he’s never held accountable, meanwhile I get run over by the wagonette just for breathing-!” Had Thomas been turned around, he might of seen Mr. Carson walked in the room. As it stood he was too busy yelling at Bates to notice, and it wasn’t like anyone was about to give him a warning. “Every time he makes a quip at me it gets shrugged off, and every time I defend myself Mr. Carson goes after me with a torch and a pitchfork and I have to sit here and take it or I’m cast out penniless and onto the streets and die in a ditch- god I don’t know which option is better at this point, at least if I died in a ditch I’d have some kind of decency-“

“I could have swornI heard shouting from my office of a most… animated type-“ Mr. Carson’s loud voice cut across Thomas’ snarl, and it stopped him so efficiently that several words died in his mouth as fear took him over. Everyone watched, relatively amused as Mr. Carson loomed ever closer, his rotund belly pressing up to Thomas so that he suddenly realized just how big Mr. Carson was. How very easy it would be for the man to crack him around the face and render him unconscious. Bates smirked, certain he’d won.

“Given your anger yesterday, I’m wondering if perhaps we need to have a talk in my office.” Mr. Carson regarded Thomas with calm benevolence as if they were having a conversation instead of catching each other out at an argument.

 

“No, Mr. Carson.” Thomas said, all but swallowing his tongue at the idea of Carson cursing his very existence in close quarters. No thank you, he’d rather take a flying leap from the top of the abbey. “I was… just… having an animated discussion with Mr. Bates.”

Bates snorted, crossing his arms over his chest. Instead of letting it slide, however, Mr. Carson snapped, “I hardly find any of this funny, and I’ll remind you not to laugh.”

Bates’ scowl slipped from his face as he dropped his arms and braced the back of the chair again waiting for Mr. Carson’s ‘guilty’ verdict. Thomas could swear he was visibly sweating by this point, incredibly nervous of what would surely come next.

“What was your discussion with Mr. Bates about, if I may ask?” Mr. Carson asked.

Thomas pursed his lips, wondering if he just stayed still long enough whether the others would forget he even existed.

“You will answer me when I speak to you.” Mr. Carson warned, “I remind you that I am the butler.”

Thomas opened his mouth, stuttering. Dr. Kinsey watched the entire display with incredible interest. “I- nothing Mr. Carson. Nothing important-“

“I could have sworn I heard you thanking him for tying your shoes.” Mr. Carson cut across, “That is an odd thing to thank a man for, particularly when he’s never done it.”

Well it didn’t really matter if Thomas told the truth or not- it wasn’t like Bates would suffer the consequences.

“… He brought up the summer, Mr. Carson.” Thomas said.

For a moment Mr. Carson merely regarded him up and down, taking in the visible shake at his shoulders and the way the blood was drained from his face. Then he turned and addressed the room at large with such an authoritative voice that none could put it asunder, “As of this moment, that subject is no longer up for discussion in the servant’s hall or anywhere else. Anyone, and I do mean anyone who speaks about it will have to answer to me and Mrs. Hughes. Am I clear?”

“Yes Mr. Carson.” Everyone said, even Mr. Bates who did not look pleased at being caught out. Indeed, he scowled at Mr. Carson and Thomas both, retaking his seat at the table next to Anna.

Carson leaned in, dropping his voice as he spoke to Thomas: “Calm yourself. You’re a member of the upper staff. Set an example for your inferiors.” And with that he left, returning down the hall surely back to his office.

“There,” Mrs. Hughes assured, “Things can be fixed without shouting.” But if she thought this fight was done she was in for a horrible wake up call.

“Nothing is fixed.” Thomas said, sounding and feeling like an impetulant child, “The minute I leave the room, they’ll be back to spitting on my name, even if Mr. Carson tells them not to-“

“You’re the one being cruel!” Anna piped up, downright affronted to be called out in any way shape or form.

“I am defending myself!” Thomas snarled, making Anna flush with renewed anger. “What do you want me to do?! Get on the ground and let you walk all over me?!”

“Well, if you’re offering.” Bates sneered.

“And here comes the excuse.” Thomas snapped, knowing full well Mrs. Hughes was about to offer Bates a way out as she always did. Maybe just to prove Thomas wrong, Mrs. Hughes instead turned into the role of negotiator though it would do her very little good.

“Mr. Bates-“ Mrs. Hughes urged in soft, gentle tones, “There is no need to be rude. And that message goes to both of you-“ she said, looking to Thomas. “You’re better than that. You’re gentlemen, you should be able to reason yourselves without dissolving into shouting.”

“You have a very funny definition of a gentleman.” Bates snapped, so irritated that he could no longer partake in his tea. The entire table watched captivated, from Daisy clutching her teapot to Moseley whose eyes couldn’t get any wider.

“Yes.She does.” Thomas snapped, turning the insult right back on its bearer, “Though I don’t know whose less suited for the title between the two of us.”

“You did not start the argument.” Baxter spoke up, her tone non negotiable. A sudden silence fell as everyone at the table registered whose side she was on. Bates looked murderous, as if he’d just been betrayed by a brother.

“Thank you for saying that.” Thomas murmured, knowing Baxter’s fear of public disapproval had always been a deterrent from taking his side against Bates, “I know that took a lot.”

Mrs. Hughes was at her wits end, “Dr. Kinsey-“ she turned to beseech the man, “Surely you can help us resolve this? Surely?” but the good doctor never got a chance before Bates snapped back into action.

“yes, isn’t that why you’re here?” Bates sneered, swiveling around in his chair to glare at the man, “To give him a tranquilizer?”

Dr. Kinsey, cool as a cucumber, replied with a smile, “Do you think he needs one?”

“I think he needs a few.” Bates said. But instead of rising to the bait, Dr. Kinsey just asked question.

“Why?”

“I don’t know,” Bates waved a hand through the air, “for exploding like a bomb over a simple bit of criticism.”

“Was it simple?” Dr. Kinsey wondered, causing Bates to fall short with another murderous expression, “Or was it layered. Meant to look small on the outside but really a reflection of something truly enormous in the deep.”

“Can you blame him?” Anna demanded, “After what Thomas has put him through?”

Of yes, Thomas was just the devil incarnate. They ought to have an exorcism in this house to get him out. Anna could be the registered saint.

“I find blame to be pointless in these matters.” Dr. Kinsey said. Anna watched with narrowed eyes, “But I will remind you all that there is no reason, no quip, no battle broiling so sinister that it warrants to bring up what was brought up today.”

Bates clenched and unclenched his fist, knowing full well what Dr. Kinsey was talking about. Even Anna looked momentarily quailed.

“The human experience is a fragile thing.” Dr. Kinsey spoke to the room at large in a calm voice, “The call of what comes after is incredibly alluring to those that feel they have no reason to stay here. This world is beautiful, it was built with beautiful things. Take for example this pot.” Dr. Kinsey reached out, taking up an empty kettle from the center of the servant’s table. None of them had really ever looked at it, save for maybe Daisy or one of the scullery maids. It was hammered copper and gleamed dully in the light.

“Have you ever truly stared at it?” Dr. Kinsey wondered, turning it left and right. “Boiled and hammered copper, polished every morning till it gleams like a king’s crown?” He sat the pot back doing and pointed to a vase full of wild flowers in the far window. “Or those flowers.” Everyone swiveled around in their seats to look, even Bates, “Daisies, purple emperors, and sahins… the first of the winter batch, the promise of Christmas soon to come. Beautiful things worth far more than just a second look… but if you’re miserable, how can you see it. How can you care.”

Bates looked back around at Dr. Kinsey like he thought the man as mad as Thomas. This just pissed Thomas off even more, because Dr. Kinsey was the smartest and kindest man he knew.

Dr. Kinsey regarded Bates’ ugly stare and was unperturbed. Instead, he offered the man a smile and said “I have an idea.”

He pulled out the empty chair at the head of the table where Carson would normally sit, and offered it to Thomas.

“Thomas, climb up.” Dr. Kinsey instructed. But what did it mean? Did… Did he want Thomas to climb up on the chair? In front of everyone?

“I don’t understand.” Thomas admitted.

“Stand on the seat.” Dr. Kinsey instructed, smiling and patting the wood.

“Mr. Carson-“ Thomas gestured to the hallway, for he was certain if the man caught Thomas standing in his chair he’d have another heart attack.

“I’ll take care of it.” Mrs. Hughes assured him gently, looking slightly confused herself, “Though I confess I’m unsure of what you’re doing.”

“I’ll explain.” Dr. Kinsey said, but before he spoke he once again offered Mr. Carson’s seat to Thomas. Nervous, fearing Carson would stride in at any moment and unleash the dogs on him, Thomas took hold of the top of the chair to hoist himself up. Mrs. Hughes and Baxter helped him up, each offering their hands in case he fell. It was incredibly bizarre to stare at everyone from such an angle, high above their heads and on the spotlight with several pairs of eyes looking at them. Thomas could not help but sweat, incredibly nervous as his stomach clenched with anxiety. In curling reflex he just got madder, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Now.” Dr. Kinsey said to the entire room as if they were all in session, “I want everyone to look at Thomas, even you Mrs. Hughes. Take a real good long look at him. Not just a two second glance like you offer to the kettle or the flowers. Look at him.”

Thomas bristled. Oh jolly good.

“Chicken?” Bates sneered softly at Thomas’ obvious discomfort. Up on top of Mr. Carson’s chair, furious at the world and everyone in it, Thomas turned his most mutinous glare on Mr. Bates so that suddenly everyone from Anna to Daisy was shrinking back in alarm.

“Do you worst.” Thomas growled murderously, “Go on. I can take it-“

“Ah, ah.” Dr. Kinsey tutted, touching Thomas’ tense arm. “Relax, Thomas. This isn’t a competition or a punishment.” He kept his hand on Thomas’ arm until Thomas began to relax, looking away from Bates to instead scowl dully at the window across from him. “Just look at those lovely flowers, not at the others.”

Knowing full well that whatever was about to follow would be truly awful and excellent ammunition for his marbles, Thomas sagged his shoulders in defeat and stared at the flowers instead. The purple emperors were quite lovely in the steam of the kettle that Daisy held. They looked like little trees poking out of the pot. This made Thomas imagine a world where purple trees existed. He imagine himself and Edward beneath one, making tender love and completely at ease with the world. Purple flowers would consume Thomas’ sight as Edward kissed him lovingly at the neck entered him slowly-

“What do we see?” Dr. Kinsey offered softly to the completely silent room, “Anyone want to volunteer-“ but before Bates could speak Dr. Kinsey said, “Mr. Bates if you’ll wait till last for the sake of the others.”

“Oh don’t worry.” Bates growled, bitter, “I can wait.”

But only silence followed Bates’ words.

“…Anyone?” Dr. Kinsey asked again, gentle as ever.

“I think he looks tired.” Baxter spoke up.

“Tired?” Dr. Kinsey repeated, “I can see that.”

“I like his hair cut.” Andy spoke up from the end of the table. Thomas flushed, feeling horribly on display.

“I like it too.” Dr. Kinsey agreed, tone turning up in amusement, “Very dapper.”

“He seems sad.” Moseley admitted. “In his eyes.”

“Maybe a tad.” Dr. Kinsey said.

“I can never get my hair to lay like that.” Andy said, sounding slightly bitter about the whole deal, “I’m too curly-“

But Dr. Kinsey’s eyes were upon Daisy, who’d already opened her mouth several times only to close it incredibly nervous.

“Daisy?” He offered kindly.

“Well…” Daisy mumbled, setting down her tea kettle and twisting her fingers, “He … He reminds me of a storm.”

“What?” Anna snorted, amused.

“How so?” Dr. Kinsey asked. Daisy chewed on her lip, brown eyes lighting up as she fully took Thomas in. He caught her gaze and blushed, unsure of what she was about to say.

“Well, when you see him at a distance, he’s dark and ominous and you think he’s going to be really bad. Like, you need to batten down the hatches and put up the horses.” Daisy just took off, rambling properly, “But then as he draws closer and opens up, it’s this really nice rain. And it’s not so bad. It’s kind of refreshing in a way. Everything needs water-“

“That’s an excellent analogy.” Dr. Kinsey praised, You’re very intelligent, Daisy-!” but before Dr. Kinsey could carry on singing Daisy’s songs, Bates cut across bitterly.

“And when he’s gone the sun shines ever brighter.”

Daisy’s smile fell at once. She clutched up her kettle again, holding it defensively against her chest.

Dr. Kinsey coughed, looking to Bates. “Mr. Bates, what do you see?”

Thomas steeled himself for the worst. It would not be enough to protect him.

Bates rose up from his chair, leaning heavily upon it to support himself in lieu of his cane.

“He looks paranoid, probably because he’s lied about something or stole something and is afraid of being found out- because he’s a massive coward even though he’ll never admit it. He looks weak- which explains his sorry attitude because as I’ve learned with this one the lower down he is the higher up he’ll try to appear to keep everyone off the scent.”

Thomas’ heart started pounding in his chest, adrenaline rising higher and higher in vicious response to Bates’ cruel jabs.

“He’s all about appearances- he looks fine enough from a distance, all scary and opposing with nice hair and pearly teeth but crack the veneer, lift the arm cuffs and what do you find? Something rotten that never got ironed out before it was too late.” Bates spat, gesturing a hand, “That’s what I see. A nice shell, a hard shell… and rubbish beneath.”

He grinned content.

Right.

Thomas launched himself with a wild scream, stepping right up onto the servants table and launching himself at Bates with hands outstretched to grab Bates about the neck and bring him swiftly to the ground. They crashed against the stone, Bates first, and immediately started clawing and tearing at each other with such gusto that fabric was soon shredded and blood drawn. This wasn’t a fight to impress, this was a fight to kill!

“Oh my god!” Anna screamed, nearly knocked down by the ruckus at her feet.  
“Thomas!” Baxter tried to lunge for him, to scoop him up, but Mr. Moseley held her back afraid she’d be harmed.

“No!” Dr. Kinsey thundered, “Do not touch them, you let them work it out-!”

“But-!” Mrs. Hughes wailed as Bates flipped them over and successfully pinned him down to try throttling him by the neck, “But they’re fighting-!”

Thomas reached up and scratched Bates hard across the face, drawing blood. He yipped, letting go of Thomas’ neck to clutch at his eye and Thomas punched him hard in the jaw. Blood flew from Bates’ mouth but he returned the favor in kind, crashing his hammish fist into Thomas jaw so that his head twanged upon his shoulders and smacked hard into the stone beneath. Stars burst in front of his eyes!

Thomas swung over again, this time hiking a leg so that Bates’ damaged knee gave out and he had to relinquish his hold on top. Thomas brought Bates around, punching him hard again in the neck only to be blocked. Bates and Thomas locked hands, each pushing with all their might to overpower the other. From beneath him, Bates bared his teeth, fangs gleaming as his dark brown eyes burned with a fury of a thousand suns. It might have gone on forever had it not been for Mr. Moseley who, in a shocking move of courage grabbed Thomas hard about the waist and hoisted him up into Baxter’s waiting arms. Together, Moseley and Baxter held him off as he desperately tried to lunge at Bates again and again. Able to finally get to his feet unimpeded, Bates jerked up, bitter and fuming. Anna pressed her handkerchief to Bates’ mouth to stem the bleeding where his lip had begun to swell.

“Wow, that lip leg of yours ain't too bad is it!?” Thomas bit out, “Cane for show?!”

“Why don’t you go jump off a cliff!” Bates snarled. Anna pressed herself to his side to keep him from fighting again. Around the table, Andy clambered through a maze of chairs to take Bates’ other side.

“What, and miss getting murdered by you, you faker!” Thomas snarled. Limp leg is arse, that cane was just for show! Thomas had felt the strength of the muscle beneath him when they’d fought!

“Oh I’m the faker!?” Bates shouted, voice towering over Thomas’ own, “Meanwhile you’re pulling the one dallying with razors, you nance!”

“What is going on in-“ Carson was back, none too happy at being drug from his office again. When he saw Bates and Thomas held back from one another, both bleeding with vests torn, he looked positively furious, “Oh for gods sake-!”

“This has to stop-!” Mrs. Hughes begged Dr. Kinsey but he refused to intervene, brown eyes blazing.

“Let it reach a boil or it’ll only get worse-“ Dr. Kinsey snapped.

“How can it get worse?!” Mrs. Hughes beseeched.  
“I will not have fighting in this house, Doctor!” Mr. Carson warned.

“They have to get this over with!” Dr. Kinsey argued, a hand flung out to keep Mr. Carson from intervening.

“I don’t see why you can’t just lock him up!” Bates spat.

“You’re just as insane as I am!” Thomas roared, thrashing hard against Moseley and Baxter’s hold, “We’re both ready to bust and you know it, so stop acting like I’m the only one capable of the worst! You’re just as bad as I am!”

“Oh put a sock in it, you Gunsel!” Bates spat.

“Mr. Bates!” Mrs. Hughes gasped, horrified at his language.

Gunsel? _Gunsel?!_

“GYA!” Thomas screamed, finally tearing free from Baxter and Moseley to reach back and sucker punch Bates in the jaw with all the strength he could muster. The force of the blow knocked Bates backwards so that he fell into a chair and tripped over his own two feet. Anna screamed, nearly going down with him as he fell to the floor.

“I’LL SHOW YOU!” Thomas screamed, ready to leap upon him and tear him limb from limb. But before he could get even another step in a strong pair of arms scooped him up from behind, grabbing him about the waste and all but dragging him out of the room. It seemed Mr. Carson had finally had enough, and Thomas could not get away from his barrel hold. Instead he scratched and clawed on every surface, nails catching at the door as Mr. Carson drug him from the room.

“YOU THINK YOU CAN CALL ME A CATAMITE AND GET AWAY WITH IT YOU DRUNK BASTARD!?” Thomas screamed, kicking and lashing- he successfully knocked over a lamp on the way down the hall, nearly dislodging Carson’s doorknob as Carson forced his office door open and shut it closed with his own body weight. There, in the oppressive silence of his office, Mr. Carson held tight to Thomas and allowed him to kick it out.

“LET ME GO! LET ME GO!” Thomas screamed, thrashing back and forth.

“Calm yourself!” Mr. Carson commanded. Calm himself?! Never! Never, he’d never be silent again!

“LET ME GO!” images were flashing across his mind, of men he’d slept with and bullies that had provoked him. Of times he’d outright whored himself for the hope of being called back by a lover only to feel shame when a call never came.

 _Gunsel_ , the marbles jeered delighted by the chaos, _Gunsel, Gunsel, Gunsel!_

“Stop struggling!” Mr. Carson commanded, his grip never slackening. For a man with shaking hands he sure was doing a damn good job of holding his own. Thomas tried in vain to break free, all but throwing himself head over heels to break Mr. Carson’s grip. The exertion on his weakened body left him slack and panting in Mr. Carson’s arms. It was only then that Thomas realized there was blood trickling down his temple. That he felt slightly woozy, as if of the verge of nausea.

Mr. Carson held him tight even as he stopped struggling.

“Let me go.” Thomas begged, for surely now Carson would have to acquiesce.

“Not until you’ve calmed.” Mr. Carson warned.

“I am calm.” Thomas bleated.

“You’re shaking.” He corrected. Thomas cursed his own emotions for making him shake like a leaf on a wind beaten tree. Thomas tried to stop himself several times, but it was simply impossible. His body would shake until it was finished and there was nothing he could do. He felt powerless, and it distressed him.

“Let me go.” He repeated for the fifth time. Now, there was emotional tonnage to his voice, a warning to Mr. Carson that he was growing distressed again in a different way. Finally Mr. Carson agreed, and Thomas stumbled away from his bruising hold to collapse against the far wall of Mr. Carson’s office. He slumped into a visitor’s chair, head bowed as he brought his fingers to his pulsing temple where blood trickled down. It seemed Bates had cut him in the scuffle, leaving quite a mark. For a moment Mr. Carson merely watching him shake in the visitor’s chair. Thomas wondered if he was about to be given his packing notice there and then… but Mr. Carson just kept watching in calm silence.

After five minutes of tense waiting, the door to Mr. Carson’s office opened again to reveal Mrs. Hughes. She looked damn traumatized, fretful as she closed the door again and strode across the room to whip out her handkerchief and press it against his temple. The cloth mopped up the blood, flecking lace white with brightest crimson. Thomas tried to shy away from her touch, but she just chased him with her hand.

“Elsie,” Mr. Carson surprised Thomas by using Mrs. Hughes’ first name. “Fetch me the others.”

“Charles.” She agreed, and she left Thomas to tend to his own wound with her handkerchief. She closed the door and silence swallowed them once more.

 

‘The Others’ seemed to consisted of an odd group. Thomas had only imagined it would be Bates and Dr. Kinsey, but apparently Anna and Baxter had both demanded to be in the room as well. Now the five of them were clustered around Mr. Carson’s desk with Mrs. Hughes at his shoulder to show moral support for his deciding voice. Bates looked a damn wreck with a black eye blooming and a split lip. Anna was glaring at Thomas with murderous intent while Baxter stared resolutely forward at Mr. Carson. For all her lack of bite, she was still clearly on Thomas’ side, holding his elbow as he used his other hand to tend to his temple. Dr. Kinsey stood between the opposing parties, clearly a physical divide to keep another outburst from happening.

Mr. Carson looked ready to throw in the towel, massing his own temple and silently cursing his bad luck with staff.

“Why must I be tormented with such reckless, destructive, and foolish staff.” Mr. Carson muttered, “I wonder do other Butlers allow such nonsense?”

“Mr. Carson, I-“ Mr. Bates tried to start, but Carson threw up a hand to cut him off.

“Mr. Bates, not another word.” Mr. Carson snapped, all but glaring at the man, “I have heard enough from both of you for one day.”

Bates snapped his mouth shut, lips pursed together in a thin white line. Anna held to his side resolutely.

“This house runs on efficiency, professionalism, and sober commitment.” Mr. Carson instructed, “Your examples today were ones of caterwauling and wild hedonism, speaking blasphemous words before women-“ He shot at Mr. Bates, “And throwing fists like this is a local brewery,” He shot at Thomas. Mr. Carson shook his head, “I blame myself for allowing this to continue-“

“Mr. Carson.” Mrs. Hughes murmured, touching his shoulders from where she stood behind his chair, “This is hardly your fault.”

“Mr. Carson,” Bates started again, this time his tone too firm to be ignored, “I am responsible for what occurred today, and I take full blame.”

Oh of course he did. That would only serve to make him look like a martyr to the others. It didn’t matter if Bates got in trouble or not. Thomas would be the one paying for this scuffle today. Thomas shook his head, continuing to press Mrs. Hughes’ handkerchief to his temple. Baxter rubbed his back supportively.

Mr. Carson rose up from his desk, and as he paced around he came to stand before Thomas.

Of course. Of course.

“And do you understand your responsibility in this house, Thomas?” Mr. Carson demanded.

“I do, Mr. Carson-“ Thomas tried to diffuse the tension but Mr. Carson steam rolled right over him like a road paver.

“You are an image to which future generations look up to.” Mr. Carson reminded him, and it was with such sting that he spoke that Thomas winced. He could have brought up anything in this argument but of course he chose to bring up Thomas’ one obvious weakness: his children. “You are rearing the future Earl of Grantham. Master George regards you as a father figure, as a prime example of what a man should do and say- today, as you lay rolling and screeching about on the floor- is that an example of what a man should do and say?”

“No, Mr. Carson,” Thomas started again, “But Master George was not around and-!”

“That is a pale excuse!” Mr. Carson warned.

“Mr. Carson, one fight does not upset a house like Downton Abbey-“

“But one upset Earl can!” Mr. Carson shouted.

Thomas closed his eyes, mouth resolutely snapped shut.  
Even the marbles were silent in the wake of horror that his words left.

Thomas looked away, looking out the window where a tree lay. Once more, it was thin and bare, its leaves shed to reveal a robin’s nest hiding in the top of the tree.

Mr. Carson retook his seat behind his desk, leaning a little back in his chair to once again regard the five of them before his desk.

“I am choosing to show you benevolent mercy beyond all comparison,” Mr. Carson murmured, “And will not be punishing you by taking you away from the children for your tawdry display today.”

Thomas let out an audible breath of relief, slight tension slipping away from him as he chewed on his bottom lip. At least he had that blessing. At least.

“Try not to overlook this blessing, Thomas.” Carson warned.

“Never.” Thomas whispered, “Thank you Mr. Carson. Thank you.”

Mr. Carson nodded, seemingly content at Thomas’ show of humility and gratitude.

“Mr. Carson, it is my fault.” Bates repeated, and Thomas was shocked at his stern tone as if Mr. Carson was the one being foolish, “I goaded him on. I wasn’t thinking.”

“I will remind you, Mr. Bates.” Carson snapped, decisive finger pointing to him now, “That you are soon to be a father too. I suggest both of you take a step back and re examine your behavior for both your children’s sake.”

Anna pursed her lips tight. Thomas heard her take a long thin breath through her nose; clearly her anger was rising.

“Doctor.” Mr. Carson regarded Dr. Kinsey with a bushy brow raised.

“Mr. Carson.” Dr. Kinsey was so damn calm and Thomas wanted to laugh.

“I hope you have a long and illustrious explanation for why you allowed the fight to occur today.”

“I do.” Dr. Kinsey assured him, “Mr. Bates and Thomas have been regarded as completely different people so far. It was my goal to show today that they are not. That they are both capable of causing intense pain and guilt. That they are both capable of acting without thinking and speaking without listening. That they are both human and prone to mistake. When Thomas stood on a chair at the judgement of a crowd, it was my goal for the others to find out exactly what Mr. Bates really thought of Thomas. It worked.” Dr. Kinsey paused, humor invading his voice, “A little better than I’d hoped but it worked.”

Bates looked around, thunderstruck. Anna’s face was draining rapidly of blood.

“Oh yes.” Dr. Kinsey chuckled at their shocked expressions, “You’ll remember, I have a specialization in social psychology.”

“You played me.” Bates said in disbelief.

“I did not put those words in your mouth, Mr. Bates.” Dr. Kinsey reminded him with a polite smile, “I merely alerted you that they were there. And now that you know they are there, you can examine them in your own good time and pace.”

“You made my husband look like a fool!” Anna said, even madder than Bates.

“Did I?” Dr. Kinsey asked. She looked taken aback, “Did I urge him to react cruelly? Or was that simply his own temper getting the better of him?”

“Thomas was cruel to him!” She pointed a vindictive finger at Thomas. Thomas did not even bother looking at her.

“Mr. Bates started the argument!” Baxter reminded, just as angry as Anna if not more so. Her voice had taken on a hard, shaving quality that Thomas hadn’t heard before and it shocked him to know she was capable of it.

“I-!” Anna started, ready to have her own argument with Baxter. Mr. Carson cut them both off.

“No more!” He warned. Both Anna and Baxter fell silent, eyes forward once again. Mr. Carson seemed shocked that the two women could have argued and shook his head disturbed, “I am seriously considering that… this situation can no longer work.” He warned.

Thomas knew a chopping block when he saw one. As much as he’d joked earlier about dying in a ditch, he had to admit that it was a very real possibility. Employment was low and workers were high- he knew for a fact that if he lost his job at Downton he wouldn’t be able to find one again. He would either starve to death or end up working in London as- what would you know it- a catamite.

“Mr. Carson,” Thomas mumbled, “I have no where to go. There are no houses hiring- you saw how hard I tried to find a job before-“ Thomas begged, “If you cast me out, I’ll… I’ll have to do unspeakable things just to get by. I’ll become an actual catamite-“ Thomas scoffed at the thought. “Which I suppose you’d think might serve me well, but-“

Mr. Carson rose up a hand, cutting Thomas off. Dr. Kinsey looked sadly at Thomas, eyes darkening for some unknown reason as he thought rapidly to himself. Thomas wondered what that powerful brain was concocting.

“I do not want Thomas to go.” Bates picked up. Mr. Carson dropped his hand, looking dully irritated, “If you’re going to punish anyone, punish me. Dr. Kinsey is right. I…” Bates seemed surprised at the words leaving his mouth, “spoke cruelly. Very cruelly.”

But Bates was just saying this to be the rug, to be the martyr. It was far from an apology.

“You’re just saying that because you love playing the martyr.” Thomas muttered bitterly, “You mean none of it. You aren’t actually sorry-“

“I am.” Bates warned him. Thomas just shook his head, “I am sorry. I shouldn’t have called you a gunsel. I don’t know why I did.”

“Because that’s what I am to you.” Thomas snapped, refusing to look at Bates.

“No. No you’re not.”

“I am.” Thomas sneered softly, “That’s what I am to this whole house. A catamite. So I suppose it wouldn’t matter if I lost my job because either way I’d end up being called a whore-“

“Thomas.” Mr. Carson warned. “If you say that word one more time I’ll put a bar of soap in your mouth.”

Thomas rolled his eyes, wondering if Mr. Carson should just try for lye instead. Now that he thought about it, lye wasn’t that half bad of an idea. He could probably end his life if he swallowed it-

“Mr. Carson…” Dr. Kinsey spoke up, “May I suggest something.”

“If you must.” Mr. Carson crossed his arms over his chest, waiting with dried up patience.

“A session with Mr. Bates and Thomas… at the same time.” Dr. Kinsey said. Shocked, Thomas’ head whipped around so fast he ended up throwing a kink in his neck and winced, cupping his neck with a hand still holding the bloodied handkerchief. Dr. Kinsey just kept right on with that same benign tone. “We’ll sit down, speak calmly, and get to the root of the matter. Thus eliminating the ‘situation’ that cannot work.”

Mr. Bates looked gravely pale as if he’d taken up a case of sepsis. Mr. Carson the other hand seemed to be weighing the matter and looked from Bates, to Kinsey, to Thomas. He let out a short sigh, nodding.

“I find that to be to my liking.” Mr. Carson admitted.

“Then with your permission?” Dr. Kinsey asked.

“Now?” Mr. Carson tapped a finger upon his desk as if to indicate his office for use. Dr. Kinsey just shook his head.

“No.” Dr. Kinsey looked at his pocket watch. Thomas noted that it was a Russell & Son’s… Liverpool… a Hunter Pocket Watch. Star gold plated case, 1910 at the latest. A damn expensive watch- it would have easily close to fifty pounds. “Let’s give them an hour to calm.”

Mr. Carson looked at his own watch. Thomas’ eyes narrowed, noting it was a gift from Lord Grantham for forty years service… a gold Fusee pocket watch. A Frodsham stamp, from Gracechurch Street in London. The year would have been 1850 at the latest- this pocket watch was an heirloom piece probably kept by the Grantham family and bestowed to Carson as a sentimental gift. Thomas wondered if Mr. Carson knew just how valuable it was of if he only loved it because it came from Lord Grantham.

“I will speak with his Lordship.” Mr. Carson rose with a heavy sigh from his desk, re pocketing his watch. “I can only allot you so much time-“

“Give me two hours.” Dr. Kinsey requested. “I’m sure Lord Grantham will understand.”

Two hours locked in a room with Bates and Dr. Kinsey talking about his feelings in lieu of an ugly fight and a nasty head wound?

Thomas would rather be shot.

 

The hour given for cooling past far too fast for Thomas’ liking. Lord Grantham apparently found the whole thing hysterical and was more than happy to give Dr. Kinsey two hours to ‘do battle’ with Bates and Thomas. He’d apparently even toasted the whole affair with a glass of scotch, laughing with Branson in the library over the idea of Bates calling Thomas a Gunsel and Thomas smacking Bates in the eye for it. Thomas found none of it funny; Baxter gently taped up his temple in the kitchen while Daisy made him a cup of tea and kept resolutely silent at Mrs. Patmore’s command. The whole lot of them were scandalized by the argument and consequent fight, leaving Thomas to stew in the corner while Daisy helped Mrs. Patmore prepare a rack of lamb for dinner. She bathed the meat in a sumptuous sauce, sprinkling it with freshly plucked basil and squeezing it with lemon.

Baxter checked her watch. Thomas’ eye slid to it and noted with a bitter sting that it was a Barrow & Son’s, silver dialed and baton hour markers… black leather band, stainless steel. Thomas closed his eyes, eyes flashing with numbers. He could all but see the stamp on its backing, and knew its first five digits would be 23102… all their lady’s wrist watches had been. Thomas rubbed the back of his neck, relaxing in his chair.

“Does your neck hurt?” Baxter murmured from across the table.

“No.” Thomas mumbled, “Just thinking about your watch.”

“My- my watch?” Baxter asked, confused. “Oh-! You mean to say your father made it-“

“Naturally.” Thomas mumbled. He kept his eyes closed, “Silver dialed, baton hour markers, black leather band, stainless steel. Take it off and I’ll tell you its first five digits on the stamp.”

He heard the sound of snapping leather and opened an eye to see Baxter had taken it off to look at the watch’s underside. Even Patmore and Daisy were intruiged.

“23102.” Thomas said. Baxter nodded, impressed. “Don’t tell me…” He thought hard… black leather band, steel plating- he was almost certain- “342?”

“Amazing.” Baxter said in congratulations, putting her wristwatch back on. “Your father would be proud.”

“Don’t be silly.” Thomas mumbled, closing his eyes again, “My father was never proud of me.” Baxter frowned, sad.

“What are you going on about now?”

“Thomas’ father was a clockmaker.” Baxter explained. “Thomas can tell you everything about a watch. All he has to do is look at it. He’s like a little Sherlock Holmes.”

“Don’t be silly.” Thomas muttered again.

“I’m not.” Baxter joked. “Mrs. Patmore do you have a watch?”

“Yes.” Mrs. Patmore pulled out a watch from her apron. “But she’s old, I doubt you could get a thing out of her-“

Thomas extended his hand. Mrs. Patmore passed it over without another word.

It was a silver half hunter, 1909 no doubt, with pin set hands and a very unusual gold tone chapter ring fitted to the front cover. the color of its roman numerals were worn away, no doubt from oils and stains a kitchen boasted. Thomas opened it’s back cover to see that inside it declared ‘Bexley Heath’… bulls eye glass. No this was hardly an old watch.

“No it’s not.” Thomas warned her. “It’s a 1909. It’s not old it’s just been heavily used. A silver half hunter, pin set hands, unusual gold tone chapter ring fitted into the front cover. A Bexley Heath in London, with bulls eye glass?” Thomas closed the back cover of the watch, handing it back to Mrs. Patmore who looked incredibly impressed. “No it’s not old at all.”

“You can tell all that just by looking at it?” Mrs. Patmore wondered as she gazed at her pocket watch.

“I just know what to look for.” Thomas mumbled, shrugging.

“What kind of watch do you have?” Daisy asked, curious. Thomas pursed his lips, fingers finding his own vest pocket where he kept a watch of his own making.

“Well, it’s not much” Thomas admitted, taking it out so that the room could see it. Daisy washed her hands in the sink, wiping them on her apron to take up Thomas’ pocket watch and examine it closely.

“This isn’t so hard.” Daisy said, “It’s…” but then she broke off, lost.

Thomas smiled, offering his hand out again. She gave him back his watch.

“A George IV; dating 1822.” Thomas said, examining his watch fondly. “Decorative rim and bezel, a gold dial and roman numerals. Original hands, and an engraved center, 18501046 numeral engraving on the back… This watch was not meant to be mine.” Thomas admitted, pocketing it again.

“What do you mean?” Daisy asked, returning to her rack of lamb.

“…M’father wouldn’t have given it to me.” Thomas admitted softly. “Didn’t want much t’do with me, he did. So I had to take it before everything fell apart.”

“I don’t understand? You stole from your father?” Daisy said in dismay, “That’s a horrible thing to do!”

“No.” Thomas shook his head. “I knew my time was ticking. When I left I didn’t have anything but the clothes on my back and this watch. Didn’t even have a brass farthing in my pocket. I knew that if I wanted to have anything to remember my family by, anything at all, then I’d have to take it by force. I had a last name but nothing to identify with. Nothing to say I’d once been the son of a clockmaker. So I took my father’s watch.” Thomas said, hand in his pocket as he stroked the gold case. “He had a hundred watches, one for every day of the month if he wanted, it didn’t mean tuppence to him. It’d be like a salt shaker to Mrs. Patmore or a teacup. Maybe she’d never think twice about it but every time you looked at it you’d see all the time you’d had together. D’you see?” Thomas asked Daisy.

After a moment, she nodded, looking off put and (dare he say it) quite sad.

“Why wouldn’t he let you stay?” she asked softly.

“…S’like Mr. Bates so kindly put it.” Thomas muttered bitterly. “I’m a gunsel.”

“Ah, I’ll have no swearing in my kitchen.” Mrs. Patmore warned. “Particularly swearing of that kind.”

Thomas shrugged, looking away to lean his head in his hand. Baxter checked her wrist watch again.

“It’s time.” She said, “You better head to Mr. Carson’s office.

“God help us all.” Mrs. Patmore mumbled as Thomas rose up from his chair. “At least we know where the sand buckets are kept.” Thomas chose to not reply to that particular comment and instead headed out of the kitchen and down the hallway towards Mr. Carson’s office where he’d been instructed to meet Dr. Kinsey at the end of his allotted cooling hour. As he knocked and opened the door he found Dr. Kinsey inside with Mrs. Hughes and Mr. Carson, both of whom were pouring over two very thick files. Upon seeing Thomas, Mrs. Hughes immediately shut the file in her own lap, putting it in a cabinet along the wall and locking it with her set of keys. Thomas wondered what had been inside of it.

“Thomas…” Dr. Kinsey smiled, clasping his hands behind his back. “How do you feel?”

“Tired.” Thomas shrugged. It was as best an explanation as he could give, but Dr. Kinsey seemed satisfied by it.

“Not ready to punch someone in the throat?” Dr. Kinsey teased. Thomas shook his head. “Good. That’s what we need. I wanted to talk to you before we go in with Mr. Bates… and remind you of all that we discussed the last time I was here. Remember, not to be afraid of rejection. Be firm, not unkind. Emotional honesty is key.” Dr. Kinsey offered, ticking off his fingers one by one. Thomas narrowed his eyes, “When you do such and such, it makes me feel such and such. Yes?” Thomas raised an eyebrow, “Good. Think through every word before you say it. Correct?”

“Did you have this conversation with Mr. Bates?” Thomas scowled, “I’m curious.”

“Mr. Bates is not my main concern.” Dr. Kinsey reminded him gently, “You are. And you’ve had a hard day so far, and it’s about to get a lot harder.” Dr. Kinsey sounded slightly dismayed as he said it. “I want to make sure that you are okay before we begin.”

Thomas sighed, hanging his head. There was no point in arguing with the man. “Fine.” He mumbled. He doubted any of this would do him any good, but he’d play along if it kept him out of the line of fire and safe with the children.

“Are we ready?”

“Yes.”

“Then let’s go.”

Dr. Kinsey lead the way, with Thomas following and (for some reason) Mrs. Hughes. They left Mr. Carson’s office together, walking down the hall past Mrs. Hughes’ own office and to her sitting room. She opened the door wide for them and Thomas blanched to see that three chairs had been pulled up amid the carpet and the tables. Two sat on one side, a third across from them in a neat little triangle. Dr. Kinsey gestured in, and Thomas entered to sit down on the chair farthest from the door. Dr. Kinsey smiled and closed the door so that for a moment Thomas was completely by himself. This solitude did not last long however, for soon Dr. Kinsey and Mrs. Hughes were back with a third member in tow: Bates. As the door opened again to reveal them all, Thomas looked away jaded. For some reason his heart was twanging wildly just like before in the servants hall when he’d been shouting and fighting. He wondered why.

Dr. Kinsey and Mr. Bates entered with Mrs. Hughes shutting the door on them all. Dr. Kinsey took it upon himself to lock the door from the inside, gesturing for Bates to sit down on the chair next to Thomas while he himself finished the triangle at the top. Bates’ cane tapped softly upon the floor as he walked slowly across the room, sitting down upon his chair with a grunt and hanging his cane between his knees. His black eye was now a steady purple, his split lip doctored with vaseline no doubt by Anna’s loving hands. Thomas wondered what it was like… to be doctored by a lover. To be cared for like you had worth.

For a moment, as Dr. Kinsey adjusted himself in his chair and Mr. Bates settled his bad leg, Thomas allowed himself to take comfort in the silence. It grew long under the paintbrush of his imagination, offering him comfort as Dr. Kinsey took out his trusty ball point pen and notepad. He smiled at the pair of them, completely comfortable.

 

“So.” Dr. Kinsey began, crossing one leg over the other to make a sordid desk for himself. “Today we had an incident… and we need to find out why. As of this moment you’re not seeing each other as people. You’re seeing each other as representations of things you hate; not the whole person.” Dr. Kinsey turned to Mr. Bates, who was watching through narrowed eyes, “Mr. Bates,” Dr. Kinsey addressed, “Thomas wants to speak honestly with you. We’re going to let him take the floor, and listen to what he has to say. And then I’d like you to speak honestly with him, not as a reply, as your own words, your own concerns. And then… we’ll come together and speak together. Okay?”

Bates picked a bit of lint off the leg of his trouser. “Fine.” He grumbled.

“Thomas.” Dr. Kinsey offered him a hand, “Whenever you’re ready.”

Well this was all good and done, but what the hell was he supposed to say? Suddenly he felt his heart pounding in his throat. He coughed, that soft silent thing, and touched his lips with trembling hands.

“Remember.” Dr. Kinsey offered gently, “When you do ‘x’, it makes me feel ‘y’.Try that.”

Thomas looked away, focusing on a glass cabinet full of old china. He wondered why they were never used.

“When you…” He coughed again, already feeling a fool, “When you insult me, belittle me” he swallowed, “Call me names,” what was the point in this, “Single me out…” He closed his eyes, refusing to look anywhere near Bates’ direction. “It makes me feel-“ god damn emotional honesty, “small, stupid, useless…ugly… and worthless.” Thomas shook his head. “I feel like you don’t see me. Like you just…”

He drifted off for a moment, considering how much a fool he sounded. But then again, could he already sink any lower in Bates’ eyes, “I’m rubbish to you.” Thomas mumbled, “So you treat me like rubbish.”

“How does that make you feel?” Dr. Kinsey asked.

Thomas did not answer. He did not want to voice the words.

“Remember how we talked about emotional honesty?” Dr. Kinsey urged, keeping his tone gentle so as not to be harsh in such a fragile moment.

“… It makes me feel awful.” Thomas bit out.

“Go on.” Dr. Kinsey urged. But what more was there to say?

“What more can I say?” He felt helpless, hopeless, “I’m tired of fighting. I’m so tired of being alone and having enemies. That’s why I hid upstairs to be with the children, because they love me and they need me so.”

But he couldn’t say anymore. Never in the history of all his years at Downton had he ever been so open, so forward with Bates, and it stung him to know that this would surely be flung back in his face. He wiped his eyes, looking away. He cursed the moisture he found on his fingertips and vainly ignored what it meant.

“Can you say anymore?” Dr. Kinsey asked. Thomas shook his head, looking at his knees. “Thank you, that was very eloquent Thomas. Mr. Bates, would you like to start?”

Frightened of what would come next, Thomas laced his fingers together and clenched them like iron. Bates said nothing, the silence swelling like a bloated day old corpse between them. “Mr. Bates?” Dr. Kinsey urged again, this time much more gently than before.

“When you…” Bates started, Thomas looked away, wiping his eyes again so that Bates could not see the emotion that lay there. “When you cry, I don’t know what to do.”

Thomas shook his head. He wasn’t crying. Not by a long shot. What rubbish.

“It’s not your fault.” Bates whispered. “I just don’t know what to do. Do you understand?”

No. He did not understand.

“We’ve fought for so long, I don’t know if we can stop.” Bates said just as bleak and helpless as Thomas felt, “I don’t know what’s left for us if we stop.”

Well put. Well put, indeed.

“If there was something there after you stopped, what would you want it to be?” Dr. Kinsey asked. Thomas didn’t know who this question was directed to until Dr. Kinsey added, “Thomas?” in a helpful tone.

“Love.” Thomas mumbled, without thinking. He spluttered, knowing how absolutely absurd that would sound to Bates. “I mean to say- I- that didn’t come out right.” He coughed to hide his nerves. “I merely mean that… I… I just…” But there was nothing he could say in that moment which rectified his initial response, and he suddenly felt a hateful and bitter wave of resentment towards his emotional vulnerability. He blushed, cheeks hot as coals as he stared resolutely at Mrs. Hughes’ china cabinet to memorize their pattern: Rabbits, draped in gold.

“How does that make you feel, Mr. Bates?” Dr. Kinsey asked, curious.

Oh god here it comes, Thomas thought in vain.

“If this is the way you feel then why do you act like you do-“ Bates demanded, hardly cross but certainly confused.

“I don’t know!” Thomas spat, his temper getting the better of him for a moment. He dare not look at Bates in that moment, knowing his expression would be mutinous.

“Thomas.” Dr. Kinsey said with slightest warning, “Let’s not resort to anger and impatience.”

“I don’t know.” Thomas repeated, rubbing his hands savagely over his face again and again to hide the blush upon his cheeks. What a fool he’d been to admit his heart to these men. He’d never get his heart back. “I think I’m crazy.” Thomas admitted, starting to grow slightly frightened again. He was growing overly aware of himself, of the sweat on his palms and the shaking of his fingers, “I think there’s something wrong with my brain-“

“There is nothing wrong with you.” Bates snapped, sounding rather affronted at the very idea. Thomas still wouldn’t look at him, “Look at me.”

He’d have better luck breaking his femur at this point, but he tried for Bates’ sake alone. Slowly turning his head, Thomas chose to stare at Bates’ knee instead of his face. He found Bates clutching tightly to the pleated wool of his trousers. “There is nothing wrong with you.” Bates repeated, though Thomas would not look at his face.

He clenched his fist tight, his hammish fingers popping slightly at the knuckle. Not even two hours ago those hands were closed around his neck, trying to choke the life out of him.

Thomas looked away.

“Mr. Bates,” Dr. Kinsey offered, “What would you want it to be? If there was something there after the fighting stopped?”

Mr. Bates pondered on this for a good long while, while Dr. Kinsey carried on, “If you could shape your relationship with Thomas, exactly to your liking, what would it be?”

“Family.” Bates finally said. Thomas’ heart twanged in his breast. “We’d… We’d be good friends. Say hello, have tea. No fighting. We would joke and rely upon one another. Family.” Bates repeated.

“Like you are with the others.” Dr. Kinsey supplied.

“Yes. No lying. No hiding.” Bates added, his voice growing a tad bit irritated again.

“When Thomas lies to you how does that make you feel?”

Bates scoffed. “Like he doesn’t give a damn about me. About anyone but himself.”

“Do you give a damn about Mr. Bates, Thomas?” Dr. Kinsey asked.

“Yes.” Thomas snapped. Of course he gave a damn; if he didn’t give a damn it would make this conversation a hell of a lot easier.

“Then why do you lie?” Bates asked.

“Because I’m af-“ Thomas all but bit down on his tongue.  
What had been about to come out of his mouth?

He swallowed, trying to regain his stream of consciousness. But Dr. Kinsey had demanded emotional honesty and so far Bates hadn’t told him to go leap off a building so what if-…? What if…

Thomas slowly unclenched from his tongue and swallowed again, trying desperately for courage. For anything that would allow him to finish his sentence.

“I don’t…” Thomas mumbled, but his voice was barely discernible even in the silence as he looked down at his knees again, “I’m…”

What?

“Ashamed.” he finally bit out, and damn him for it.

You fool, he thought bitterly, You’ve gone and done it now.

“Of what?” Bates asked, clearly confused, “What do you have to be ashamed of?”

Thomas scoffed, “You ask me that and yet not even an hour ago you could have given me fifty reasons to be ashamed.” He turned, glaring at Bates, but his eyes softened at once when he realized that Bates was not angry at him. That Bates was looking at him for the first time in thirteen years like he was a human being.

Like Bates could actually see him.

“And when Mr. Bates talk to you that way,” Dr. Kinsey continued on. Now Bates and Thomas were staring at one another unable to let go of eye contact, “It hurts your feeling terribly as you said at the start of this session. So it really is a vicious cycle. Bates hurts your feelings, you lie to gain distance and protection, Bates gets angry about the lie and hurts your feelings- do you see?”

“Well if you wouldn’t lie to-“

“Well if you wouldn’t be so-“ Thomas and Bates started together, cross-haring one another. Their nostrils flared simultaneously, each man pursing his lips.

“Gentlemen…” Dr. Kinsey murmured in a soothing voice, “This is really not a case of who did what first. What matters is that we recognize why the pattern is destructive and we stop it. We both, in our own ways, take action. This is not a solitary mission… what is requires is a promise, a change in thought pattern, and a technique. If Bates promises not to make any more derogatory comments, and Thomas promises not to lie, then the pattern is broken. You see? Instead of making derogatory comments, Bates will instead…?”

Bates raised an eyebrow sneering even as he held Thomas’ gaze.

“I will instead what? Hold his hand?”

“If you like.” Dr. Kinsey did not rise to the challenge, keeping his tone calm and conversational, “What would you do if Thomas was your friend and he lied to you?”

“He wouldn’t lie if he was a friend.” Bates argued.

“Say something bad happened and he was frightened. Say there were particular circumstances that made Thomas feel like rubbish again and he lied. What would you do?”

Bates looked him up and down, from the way his hands shook to the way his face was drained of blood.

“…I’d…” Bates scrambled for an answer, “Want to know what happened.”

“You’d be concerned, and you’d ask him what happened, and you wouldn’t take that lie personally because it isn’t meant as an offense against you in particular is it.”

“It’s an offense against civilized society.” Bates grumbled. “To lie all the time.”

“Well.” Dr. Kinsey chortled, recrossing his legs, “We’ve all offended civilized society every now and then, haven’t we.”

Bates relaxed a little in his chair, eyes sliding to the top of his cane which he repositioned at his side. “Maybe” he grumbled.

“Thomas, if Bates made a comment that hurt your feelings, what would you do? Instead of lying.” Dr. Kinsey asked.

“I’d go upstairs and cry in my room.” Thomas sneered, for he had absolutely no idea what he was going to do if put in such a situation and he highly doubted it would ever come about anyways- what was the point of this?

Dr. Kinsey nodded, mulling the idea over.

“That’d probably be a good way to exert your feelings but would it entirely help?” Dr. Kinsey wondered aloud.

“I was joking.” Thomas snapped.

“I was being completely serious.” Dr. Kinsey warned. Thomas looked away, scoffing. “…Thomas?”

“I’d tell him that it hurt my f-“ Thomas shook his head, rising from his chair. He had to pace, to walk, and went over to the cabinet to lean against it. “This is ridiculous!”

“Why?” Dr. Kinsey asked, calm as ever.

“Because none of this is every going to happen!” Thomas declared. “Bates hates me! He’s never going to- to do any of this-!” Thomas gestured about the room, refusing to look at Bates as he spoke.

“Are you in his head?” Dr. Kinsey asked.

“No.”

“Then how do you know?”

“I just know.”

“How.”

“I don’t know how I know, I just know!” Thomas snapped, getting close to shouting.

“Do you know or are you just scared?”

“What is there to be scared of?” Thomas snapped. “A man with a cane and a bum leg?”

A sudden scraping noise filled the room as Bates rose from his chair to lean heavily upon his cane. Thomas bristled, his back still turned to Bates though he could clearly see the man’s reflection in the glass just over his shoulder. Bates could touch him if he reached out his arm. Both Dr. Kinsey and Bates were completely silent as Thomas cursed his quick words.

He knew what needed to be said, but that didn’t make it any easier to say them.

“… I’m sorry.” Thomas finally managed to grit out. “I… I’m sorry I said that. Truly.”

“… It’s alright.” Bates finally replied, “I know you’re upset. But you don’t need to be scared of me, or to hide your feelings from me. I’m a grown man, I can handle a bit of criticism.”

“Can I?” Thomas mumbled, unsure. “Every time someone criticizes me I die a little on the inside. Maybe I’m not a real man. Maybe I am just a gunsel.”

“You’re not.” Bates ground out. “You’re not a gunsel, and I never should have said that.”

“Yeah well you’re not a cripple either so we’re both wrong, aren’t we.” Thomas lashed out. Bates fell silent again for a moment, weighing his words before he spoke.

“If I say something that upsets you, tell me.” Bates offered, “Take me aside, and tell me.”

“What if it’s something stupid.” Thomas retorted, “What if it’s something silly and… and you don’t see the point.”

“We do what we can.” Bates offered. “If I can make this sodden year any calmer for you then I will.”

Thomas thought back on July. On how hard it had been to fathom even living fifteen minutes ahead at times. Now here he was, five months from then, and what had he learned? Sometimes it felt like absolutely nothing- what a truly hopeless situation.

“What if-“ Thomas spluttered. “What if I just need to be… put somewhere.”

“What do you mean?” Bates asked.

“Like in a- an asylum or a-“

“That’s ridiculous-“

“But what if it’s me-?” Thomas demanded, rounding on Bates so that they were now facing one another. Deciding to test the man Thomas truly let Bates taste his fear, let him see it on his face and in his eyes. Let him finally get a glimpse of a man beneath the sneering mask… of the rubbish he’d so alluded to earlier in the servant’s hall.

“Everyone else can make friends, and get along, and be normal. But not me.” Thomas shook his head, “M’not built for it. M’not right in the head. If we stop fighting, what’s left?”

“Well, that is up to the both of you.” Dr. Kinsey urged for optimism. “It boils down to how much effort you are willing to exert, whether you even want this bridge built at all-“

“I want it-!”

It was a shocking thing, to realize that both he and Bates had said the words aloud. They’d practically come in the same millisecond, resulting in a firm chorus that gave Dr. Kinsey pause as his lips curled into a grin. He capped his ballpoint pen, sliding it back into his vest pocket and uncrossed his legs.

He raised his hands in offering welcome to the ceiling, as if to say ‘what did I tell you?’ and said “There you have it” with such finality that neither man could put it asunder.

And that, as they say, was that.

 

Dr. Kinsey left after their session, having to hassle to catch the train back to London. In his wake he left two men, completely upheaved and unsure of what to do next. Thomas went back upstairs to reclaim sanctuary over the children, but as he went he noticed a change in the atmosphere downstairs. Several people (Mrs. Patmore, Mrs. Hughes, Anna, and Baxter included) seemed to watch him with oddly sympathetic eyes that he did not like. It gave him a feeling that they’d been listening at the door, trying to eavesdrop on his ‘session’ with Mr. Bates. Bates himself didn’t want to talk to Thomas afterward, he seemed to need a minute by himself, and busied away in the boot room before going up to change Lord Grantham for dinner. In the nursery, Thomas oversaw dinner for the children, bathed them, changed them, tucked them into bed, and then told them the story of ‘Princess Jimmy’ for what was surely the hundredth time just to keep them happy. By the end of it Sybbie was curled up like a kitten in bed while George held onto his teddy bear for dear life and Marigold snored like a freight train from her crib.

Thomas wondered at that session with Bates and Dr. Kinsey. At some of the things Bates had said:

“It’s not your fault I- I just don’t know what to do. Do you understand? We’ve fought for so long, I don’t know if we can stop. I don’t know what’s left for us if we stop.”

Never before in thirteen years of knowing Bates had he heard such honesty from the man, such intense introspection to their relationship. He tried to think of Bates without thinking of anger or fighting. What was left was a relatively blank canvas and one that unsettled him. It struck him that he knew practically nothing about the man. That he could claim no prior knowledge to help him along. He supposed he was much the same in Bates’ eyes.

He tried to imagine Bates as a stranger. The result was startling.

Bates was damn resourceful, to be permanently injured and yet still find a job in Downton. Of course he’d used Lord Grantham to find employment. Where the hell else could a man with a bum leg work? No where decent, that was for sure. God only knows, he could get injured even worse attempting to work a poor job on a bad leg. He could even lose a foot or hand, particularly if he’d worked on a dock or in a factory.

A knock on the door jerked Thomas from his reverie, and he left his rocking chair to open it just a crack. It was Tom Branson, smiling amiably and cocking an eyebrow.

“Thought I’d pop in.” He murmured softly. Thomas let him in willingly. Branson first checked on Sybbie, pulling her covers up a little bit so that it covered her shoulder before sitting down at the foot of her bed. Thomas retook his seat in his rocking chair, rocking a little and watching as Branson drummed his thick fingers upon his knees.

“Long day?” Branson whispered.

“More than you know.” Thomas whispered back. He paused, thinking once again on Bates and the session, “Do you ever have a moment where you realize maybe the man you hated was the man you understood the most?”

“I can’t see me and the King of England seeing eye to eye, can you?” Branson joked softly with an impish grin, “Why do you ask.”

Thomas shook his head.

“I heard you had bit of a fight.” Branson admitted, tapping the side of his head to mark where Thomas had gotten hit earlier at tea time.

“Bit.” He agreed.

“Heard Bates called you a Gunsel.”

“He wants to be my friend.” Thomas said, mildly amusing at shock in his own voice.

“Is that so alarming?” Branson asked, cocking his head to the side.

“… I don’t really have friends.” Thomas admitted.

“Do you want to?”

“Yes.” Thomas admitted, for who wouldn’t want to have friends? Branson smiled, amused, but for the first time Thomas couldn’t find himself taking offense. It wasn’t a mean amusement, Branson wasn’t laughing at him. Branson was just… happy. Enjoying life. It was pleasant.

“I want to… be your friend.” Thomas admitted softly. Branson just smiled wider, “And you don’t know how much it takes for me to admit it. How afraid I am.”

“I do.” Branson assured him gently, lacing his hands together, “You’re a proud man, you don’t like to be made a fool of. Neither do I, but I am your friend… whether you believe it or not.”

He supposed this was the moment to aim for. The moment where he could prove his worth. Thomas nodded, “I… Choose to believe it.”

“Well.” Branson said, “I take that as a compliment.”

Which was good… because Thomas meant it as one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just as a note, 'Gunsel' and 'Catamite' both refer to male prostitution. To get called either of these titles in 1920's England would have been an insult worthy of a fight. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading. Leave a review if you have anything to add, or if you particularly liked it!


	8. Ya Filthy Animals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edith has a wedding.   
> Anna has a baby.  
> Tom has a drink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the chapter title comes from the famous phrase "Merry Christmas, ya filthy animals." Just a slight squick warning for blood in this chapter, once again, and Tom Branson's inability to keep his hands to himself. Hope you enjoy!

After the conversation with Dr. Kinsey and Mr. Bates, things seemed to change overnight. 

Thomas was almost certain that people had been eavesdropping at the door, for though Anna had been livid with him before the conversation, afterwards she seemed incredibly thoughtful and pensive. When Thomas came down to collect the children’s tea or fetch linens, Anna was often there watching with soft eyes, trying to catch his gaze as he passed in the hall. Mr. Bates did not talk to him more, nor did they laugh or merry about as Thomas supposed family often did, but Bates did not provoke arguments from him and on the rare occasions when Thomas came downstairs for servant’s tea Bates merely kept space across the table reading his paper and drinking his tea. When he did speak to Thomas, it was in a normal, calm voice- the voice he used for everyone else- and he never glared at Thomas anymore. Slowly the blank canvas was being filled with colors, painting Bates as a relatively grumpy if not honorable individual that was a curmudgeon but easy enough to get along with if you were a part of his ‘pack’. 

Somehow, Thomas had joined that motley crew. He wasn’t too sure how he felt about it. Most of the time he didn’t want to acknowledge his relationships with the downstairs staff. He simply wanted to be left alone with the children. But the others often asked after the children, particularly Anna (who was growing more maternal by the hour) and Mrs. Hughes (who always tried to make conversation when she saw him)… so Thomas ended up speaking to people more often than not simply to sate curiosity. Every time he was asked to stay downstairs for dinner, however, he rejected and dined with the children instead. He felt no shame for it, no sense of guilt. Love had been so rare in his life that he was now like a glutton, chasing it where ever he could. As snow began to fall, Thomas took the children outside bundled up like eskimos so that they could build snowmen and make angels in the frothy white down. This resulted in snow ball fights, with Tiaa becoming a casualty by accident. Thomas played down, allowing the children to take him down even as they pelted him with tiny balls of snow and leapt atop him in his surrender. He laughed more in those hours than he could remember laughing in the past ten years, and it gave him a warm ache in his belly. Lady Mary and Mr. Talbot even got George a sled, which resulted in far too much chaos as everyone took their turn sliding down a snowy hill. Thomas had to hold onto Marigold when it was her turn, the pair of them sliding fast down the steep hill and shrieking together so that birds went scattering from their trees. Tiaa chased them every time, tongue lolling and eyes glazed. 

Afterwards, the whole lot of them were frigidly cold and soaked to the skin from melted snow, shivering as Thomas herded them all inside and had the children change to take tea downstairs with their parents. They hid by the fire, shoes off as they allowed their feet to warm even while wearing thick wool socks. Tiaa passed out in her basket, exhausted from the whole affair. Marigold slept on Edith’s lap, pampered with kisses and caresses. Thomas held onto Sybbie, allowing her to sleep against his chest while Branson and Mr. Talbot entertained George who was still yearning to race again on his sled. Somehow he felt if they brought snow in from the outside and put it on the stairs, then they could race inside and not be burdened by the frigid chill. 

As was common with five year olds, logic went out the window. 

Thomas took a day off in order to go into York, eager to buy Christmas presents for the children and members of the family, not to mention Baxter and Mrs. Hughes. He’d thought about the whole adventure for an entire week, and had begun writing a list until he’d realized that Sybbie had caught onto what he was doing and started riffling through his clothing to find the list and examine it for herself. In an attempt to keep the children at bay, Thomas then started keeping the list on him at all times, for while George still believed in Father Christmas, Sybbie had seen Branson put presents underneath the tree last year and was under no illusions as to who delivered the ‘goods’. Thomas could remember being Sybbie’s age, and knowing full well that his parents were the delivers of Christmas presents. His dying wish had been to receive a sketch pad for Christmas with a stick of charcoal to draw with. He’d wanted to sketch the flowers in his mother’s garden or birds that passed by their shop window. He’d begged, he’d pleaded, and when his father had had enough he’d popped Thomas in the face and told him to quite. 

Thomas had never gotten that sketchpad. He’d never gotten anything period, save for a new pair of mitts or socks when they grew too holed to stand up to the Stockport snow. One time Margret had gotten a sketchpad, and he’d been so jealous and upset at the whole affair that he’d gone into his room and cried until his mother had berated him for ‘spoiling’ the good time and demanded he return to the living room to partake in the ‘festivities’. Sniveling, Thomas had watched broken hearted as Margret had drawn anything she pleased while he’d worn his new socks over his old ones to receive double the warmth. 

 

He was determined that Sybbie, George, and Marigold would have no such Christmas. 

Sybbie was getting older, and as such she could often be found flipping through dress magazines belonging to Lady Mary in an attempt to get inspiration for what she might one day wear. The fashions were changing, the hem lines were rising, and Sybbie longed to take part in it even as Thomas mended the lace collar on her old frock. He’d decided long ago that he was going to get Sybbie a dress… something beautiful and unique that dude justice to her lovely looks. 

George was incredibly hard to buy for, because dear lord the child already had everything and what else could he need. What George really wanted was a pony, but there was no way in hell Thomas would ever be able to afford a horse. He’d therefor decided the next best thing was to get George a play pony- perhaps something made of wood or ceramic. He’d have to look at a toy shop to see. George certainly had a strew of soldiers and captains. He could stand to have a horse or two in his little army. 

Marigold was the hardest of them all, because she didn’t seem to give half a damn about anything in particular. She just liked to talk. She babbled when she was awake, she snored when she slept, and in the hours between she mumbled into Thomas’ shoulder about nothing in particular. When the child finally learned to talk none of them were going to catch a break; Thomas was certain a mental breakdown was looming in his not so distant future the minute Marigold finally learned to say ‘Barrow’. In an attempt to help her communicate better with the world around her, Thomas had therefore decided to buy her what he’d never had… a sketchpad. 

_Get one for yourself!_ a selfish voice pestered inside his head. 

_No_. another bitter voice cut in, _You don’t have enough money. Don’t be ridiculous_. 

He certainly had quite a few people to buy for. Thomas wanted to get something for Lady Mary, Lady Edith, and Lord Grantham as well as Mrs. Hughes and Ms. Baxter. He’d not bought so many Christmas presents in- well… Never. 

He’d never bought more than two Christmas presents in the past. One for O’Brien and one for himself just so that he’d have something to open along with the others. This year, he decided he would purchase nothing for himself. With the money he’d saved, he would buy something for Mrs. Hughes… who in truth he always had wanted to buy something for but had been too afraid. 

Not this year.   
…Not this year. 

The good news was that he wasn’t the only man in the house with a need to shop, and so it was that Branson had offered Thomas a ride to York with Mr. Talbot; the three of them were all on the same mission or so Branson had said. Thomas had asked for the day off from Lady Grantham, who’d been more than happy to get a maid to take over the children for a day. Clad in coat, scarf, hat, and hits, Thomas headed through the front hall towards the doors beyond which lay a field of glistening white. Snow had fallen nonstop for the past week, so that every road in and out of Downton was now obscured beneath the mounds. Poor Andy, stuck by the front door, had a red nose and was clearly sniffling as he blinked blearily at Thomas. 

Poor man. 

Branson came bounding down the stairs, scarf around his neck flapping in the wind and tribly hat in his hand as he caught up to Thomas in the entrance hall. 

“Shall we go?” Branson asked as Andy fetched him his coat. He shrugged it on, buttoning it up fast before the cold could get in. 

“Yes.” Thomas patted the list which lay in his vest pocket, “Though I fear I’m going to be broke by the end of the day.” 

“Tis the season.” Branson joked as they left the house and stepped out onto the freshly fallen snow. It crunched merrily underfoot as they walked, waiting for Mr. Talbot to drive up. He’d expressed an eagerness to be the man behind the wheel, giving the chauffeur a break for the day. “What are you thinking of getting?” 

“I’m not saying a word till we’re off the property!” Thomas warned, looking over his shoulder to the front door. Who knew what lay beyond it- naughty children listening at the cracks perhaps, “They’re like little spies, I tell you. I swear I saw Sybbie going through my shoe soles for my list.” 

“She didn’t think to look in your vest pocket?” Branson asked, curious. Thomas pulled the offending list out, waving it tantalizingly in the air. 

“Oh, far too easy.” Thomas said. Branson snorted, amused at his daughter’s nonsense, and Mr. Talbot pulled around the house in a shining black motorcar with a humming engine. He pulled up, waving a hand to them all in cheery hello. Thomas was amazed to see that not only was the car open topped, it did not boast much of a backseat. They would all be crammed in the front seat together, clearly. 

“Pip, pip Cheerio!” Mr. Talbot looked damn gleeful, eye goggles on and a ridiculous glin plastered over his face. Thomas somehow ended up getting in the middle with Branson taking the side and slamming the door closed so that they could take off together. Despite Thomas’ fear that they would freeze, it wasn’t really all that cold as Henry took off. Indeed, it was slightly hot with the engine roaring beneath the hood and the cool air was refreshing. 

“Gun it!” Branson jeered, stamping the floor of the car underfoot. Thomas watched, amazed. They were like children. 

“How fast can she go?” Thomas asked, raising an eyebrow at Mr. Talbot’s little evil smirk. 

“Is that a challenge?” Mr. Talbot asked. 

Branson was all but jiggling in his seat, eyes wide with delight. He caught Thomas’ eyes, somehow seeming to plead with him. 

Thomas looked back at Mr. Talbot. 

“Yes.” Thomas snapped. Without further ado, Mr. Talbot stamped his foot on the gas. 

The car screeched, tires squealing and engine roaring. They flooded forward, both Thomas and Branson having to yank their hats off their heads before they flew off in the sudden wind. Thomas had never gone this fast in his life, akinned it to flying, and threw his hands up into the air joyfully as both he and Branson cheered for more. They went flying around a turn, snow shooting up like a white wall as tires skirted the earth. 

“If we get into a wreck Mary will kill us!” Branson shouted over the din. 

“She’ll forgive me!” Mr. Talbot shouted back, eyes blazing beneath his goggles. At this point Thomas didn’t give a fuck if they got into a wreck. Let them get into a wreck. Let them all die. It would be worth it to continue living like this- flying like a bird! “This is hardly my best car!” 

“What’s your best car?” Thomas asked, curious. 

“It’s a secret!” Talbot grinned. 

“Tell me!” Thomas begged, now thoroughly enchanted. No wonder Mary had wanted marry this man. 

“A silver arrow I had shipped in from Germany!” Mr. Talbot explained, laughing when Branson feigned a horrified gasp, “Illegal in England! Six hundred horse power, her engine can suck the arse off a cat!” And the three of them howled at his rowdy joke. 

 

York boasted many places to shop, the most affluent of which was Coppergate. It was an enormous building with multiple stories, boasting shopping for the wealthy and window gazing for the poor particularly during this part of the year. Thomas had never been one to window gaze, feeling far too lonely when it was all said and done; as he entered Coppergate with Branson and Mr. Talbot he had a feeling he was in over his heard. His meagre money, collected over years of saving on Christmas and birthday presents, was about to fly out the window like a theoretical hat in Mr. Talbot’s car. 

Branson and Talbot immediately started talking with the fine jewelers counter, wanting to examine their diamonds. Left to his own devices with word that they were to meet back at the front doors by one, Thomas examined his own list and started going through the fields. He best bet would be to try and get the children out of the way first-

“What are you doing-“ Branson was _right over his shoulder_ , Thomas yipped and clutched his list to his chest so that Branson couldn’t see. 

“Gya-!” Thomas snapped angrily, “Don’t do that! Go away!” He flicked a hand at Branson, trying to get him to scoot. It wasn’t working. 

“You can’t shake me.” Branson urged, “What’re you getting?” He tried to get at Thomas’ list with an impish grin. Thomas held the list all the way away from Branson to keep it away from his itching fingers. 

“Nothing!” He snapped. 

“Oh come off it-“ Suddenly Thomas was double teamed, squished between Mr. Talbot who snatched the offending list out of his hand and Branson who wouldn’t let him get away. Talbot peered over his list, an eyebrow arched at the weird system of numbers and letters he found. 

“Hey!” Thomas tried to get his list back to no avail. Talbot was taller than he and easily kept him at arms length. 

“Let’s see.” Mr. Talbot mused, “Well this is in code-!” 

“That’s what your spying gets you!” Thomas snapped, yanking his list back to hold it defensively against his chest. 

“Oh give over.” Branson urged. 

“Tom and I are shopping together to keep from cracking like eggs. You might as well join us.” 

Thomas flushed, thinking of Talbot and Branson’s pocket books, bulging at the seams. 

Damnit. 

“Alright…” Thomas mumbled, conceding defeat, “Well-“ He glanced at his list, “I’m getting Lady Mary a hat pin, and Lady Edith a scarf-“ 

“Yes-“ Branson urged, “But the real question is what you’re getting me.” 

“Coal.” Thomas grumbled, “A whole bag of it.” 

Talbot snorted, heading for the stairs. The other two headed off after him, eager to keep up. He was, after all, the richest of the three of them. “Nice try, Tom.” 

“I’m getting Mrs. Hughes a broach.” Thomas said as they headed up the stairs, cutting a path through rich women and their depressed husbands. “But I don’t know what to get Baxter.” He pursed his lips, “It has to be perfect, and I’m unsure of what that could be.” 

“Your sweetheart?” Talbot asked over his shoulder as they reached the top of the stairs. They were suddenly assaulted by a sudden surge of color and sound, children’s toys surrounding them. Thomas flushed, horrified at the mental image of him as Baxter’s sweetheart. 

It was disturbing. 

“Gye-!” Thomas flushed hot pink, “I mean- certainly not!” 

“No, no-“ Talbot corrected him with a quirky grin; they began to cut their way through mountains of teddy bears and porcelain dolls. “I mean to say are you getting anything for your sweetheart for Christmas. Not to imply that you’re Baxter’s sweetheart.” 

“Oh-“ Thomas was still flushing hot pink. He put his hands over his cheeks; they were incredibly warm, “I… I don’t have one.” 

“Face like yours?” Talbot joked. Thomas flushed again, looking away to start milling through little girl’s dresses. He’d already decided he was getting Sybbie something green for her Irish heritage, “A day in London will change that.” 

“If only it were that simple.” Thomas mumbled, going through one dress and then another. Either they were too flashy and forward or too demure and soft- he needed something right in the middle. “A face only counts for so much. Crack the veneer and what do you find?” but the conversation was turning much to morbid for a Christmas shopping spree so he stopped himself at once and said, “I’m unsure of what to get for Lady Grantham.” 

“Tom and I are pitching in for a hat.” Talbot offered, “If you join us it’ll cheapen the score.” 

“I think it might break me.” Thomas admitted. He noted that Branson was going through dolls, clearly looking for one that was similar to Sybbie. He’d be at it for a long time… Sybbie was far more beautiful than the dolls the store offered. 

“Alright,” Talbot reasoned, “Then how about you get the hat pin.” 

“That I can do.” Thomas agreed. Hat pins were in the budget. Hats were not. 

He finally found a dress just right, dripping in plastic emerald beads and even coming with a matching head band. Lady Grantham would probably kill him, but it would at least be an excellent dress for Sybbie to play in, perhaps styling her face and hair in the mirror of the playroom and pretending she was a lady at a nightclub. What was even better, it was on clearance, and Thomas bought it at once along with large sketchbook for Marigold and several crayons in different colors so that she might have an adequate pallat to work from. George was the hard one; Thomas looked through plastic horses and noted that even the relatively small ones were incredibly expensive. 

It seemed his original plan was shot. 

“What to get for George.” Thomas murmured softly. Luckily Talbot was nearby, getting Sybbie a pair of new shoes with Branson’s supervision. They’d already laughed themselves silly at the emerald dress. 

 

“Mary and I are getting him a horse.” Talbot said. “Perhaps you can chip in-“ 

“Mr. Talbot,” Thomas cut across him, dulled by the damn suggestion. Chip in for a horse? Jesus hell- “If I chipped in for a horse, I would literally be sleeping in the barn with the animal for a year.” 

“No, no.” Talbot chuckled, waving the suggestion away with an errant hand, “Get him a riding helmet or something of that sort-“ 

“But even that would be far too much.” Thomas said, shaking his head. 

“Let’s go in together!” Branson offered, finally having found a doll he liked best. Despite being much uglier than Sybbie, it certainly boasted the same haircut and even (what would know) had a green dress. The pair of them could be twins when Sybbie dressed in Thomas’ gift. Thomas reasoned that with Branson by his side, he stood a chance at really getting George a good gift; it was charitable of the man. 

“Would you?” Thomas asked, hopefully. 

“Of course!” Branson agreed, paying for the doll and allowing the cashier to box it for him. He carried the whole package under his arm so that it stuck out awkwardly on each end, “We’ll get him a riding helmet and boots.” 

So they did. Thomas was relieved to find that, as far as children were concerned, riding gear wasn’t too expensive. He likewise managed to find relatively cheap hat pins that were actually quite pretty, and got two along with a lovely oriental scarf that he figured would please Lady Edith. Mrs. Hughes’ broach came from another clearance aisle, perhaps seasons old and considered too dull for some of the bright new things that came wandering through Coppergate. It was perfect for Mrs. Hughes however, given that it featured a cherub resting peacefully on a cloud. If anyone was an angel it was Mrs. Hughes. What was more, Thomas even found a dull little snuffbox that bore the image of a white dog on its front, nose pointed on the hunt. Delighted in his cleverness, Thomas got it for Lord Grantham at once and reasoned that the man would never know Thomas had gotten him something so cheap. Honestly, it was the thought that counted, surely. He liked snuffboxes, he liked dogs- he’d love this. 

Baxter… Baxter… What to get for Baxter. 

Mr. Talbot and Branson could of course afford more expensive gifts, so as Thomas toddled after them with bags in hand (ever the footman) he gazed at beautiful necklaces, earrings, bangles, and headbands. Some were over two hundred pounds, massively expensive and dripping in diamonds. Some were lower, but still way out of Thomas’ poor price range. It was in one such gaze that Thomas’ eyes fell upon a heart shaped locket, decorated with little designs of blooming wheat with a large labradorite stone in the center. It was ten pounds, incredibly expensive for Thomas… but utterly beautiful. 

And perfect for Baxter. 

The stone, so dark and gleaming, reminded him of her hair and eyes. How they both sparkled in the sun that streamed through the windows of the boot room. The gold was her heart, through and through- the budding wheat the promise of the future. He found himself staring longingly at it while Branson and Talbot finished up their shopping next to him. 

“Something caught your eye?” Branson asked, finishing up with his list and watching Thomas stare at a glass window full of necklaces and earrings far above his station. 

“That necklace.” Thomas nodded to the heart locket, which sat almost in the dead center along with several other lockets of varying design and shade, “It’d be perfect for Baxter… but of course if I bought that I’d kill myself.” Thomas muttered, wondering if Branson could ever guess the dark humor behind his own private joke. 

“Let me help.” Branson urged, in a sudden fit of generosity. 

“Mr. Branson!” Thomas warned him, turning to catch his eyes. He always seemed to be wearing an impish grin, “It’s far too expensive.” 

“What’s far too expensive.” Mr. Talbot was finally finished, diamonds boxed and wrapped under his arm as he watched Thomas and Branson have it out. Branson pointed to the heart shaped locket and Mr. Talbot eyed it appraisingly. “Whose that for? Potentially?” he added when Thomas glared. 

“Ms. Baxter.” Thomas admitted softly. “But it’s far too expensive and I shant be able to afford either even if Father Christmas himself chips in.” 

In an attempt to quit from sulking, Thomas left the window and headed for the front doors. They each had several bags to load, and so Thomas had the valet bring Mr. Talbot’s car around so that he could stuff everything in the trunk. With the way Mr. Talbot drove, there was no way in hell he was putting his goods in the back seat. When he finished shoving the last item in the trunk, Branson and Talbot exited Coppergate and clambered back in the car. Once again, Thomas was in the middle, poor as a church mouse but feeling slightly better about Christmas in general. At least the children would have a good one. Thomas reasoned that he would write Baxter a letter detailing his gratitude- that it would mean more to her than any necklace surely and that it would be free (best of all). 

The paved roads of York slid out from underfoot, turning into country dirt as fields of white swooshed dotted with barren trees and lines of hedges. Branson relaxed, stretching a hand out behind Thomas so that he could lean a little into the line of the door. 

“So what did you end up getting me?” Branson asked, chipper as ever. 

“Well, Barrow and me when half and half and got you a massive bucket of coal.” Mr. Talbot joked. Thomas smirked, cocking an eyebrow as he crossed his arms over his chest. 

_Well played, Mr. Talbot_ , Thomas thought. 

“Ugh!” Branson groaned, rolling his honey brown eyes, “You’re such an old man, Henry. No fun at all.” 

Mr. Talbot slowly looked around, taking his eyes off the road. He stared, dumbstruck at Branson for daring to insist that he- race car driver extraordinaire- was _old_. 

Determined to get the last laugh, Mr. Talbot threw all common sense out the window and jerked the car to the left hard. 

So sudden was the movement, so shocking against the snow, that they went spinning out wildly. Thomas screamed, falling into Branson’s lap from the force of the movement- Branson nearly lost his hat to the commotion, just barely managing to hold onto it as he grabbed onto the door and Thomas for dear life. Their spin fish tailed, pealing out to return them to the road so that suddenly the only evidence of their near fatal disaster was a massive donut shaped indention in a once pristine field. Thomas was shaking in Branson’s lap, slowly sitting up to register their surroundings. 

Branson got one look at the sight of his face, and burst into howling peels of laughter. 

“Lord!” Talbot howled, smacking the steering wheel as Thomas righted himself in his seat, shaking and pressed hands over his hammering heart. “If I didn’t know you were a lavender that would have confirmed it!” 

Branson and Talbot were all but crying with laughter; Thomas face flushed bright red, embarrassed and bitter at being called out just for a shout- Talbot was the one who was a damn psychopath behind the wheel of his car-! 

“Your face!” Branson was actually crying now and had to wipe the moisture from his eyes, “You screamed higher than a girl!” 

Thomas sulked, crossing his arms angrily over his chest as he sank down in his seat. Branson caught sight of him and hooked an around his shoulders, hugging him tight in a platonic way. “Oh come on!” Branson urged. “It’s friendly banter, nothing more. We’re not making fun of you-“ 

“I am.” Talbot sneered. Branson looked over him, smug and content driving his lovely racing car. He leaned in, lips skirting the shell of Thomas’ ear as he whispered. 

“Get back at him. Grab the gear shift and put it in second.” 

Thomas turned, catching Branson’s eye. He waggled his eyebrows delightedly.   
Fine enough. 

Thomas reached forward, hand shooting out before Talbot could stop him to grab the protruding gear stick. He jerked it down, throwing the car into second without warning. They spurted off much faster than before, engine screaming in defiance as Talbot swerved to keep control of the floor and immediately put the car back in first. 

“Barrow-!” Talbot shouted, angrily. Thomas grinned, smirking at him, somehow finding that he was leaning into Branson’s side merely because he was slunk down in his seat and Branson was leaning an arm against the back of the seats. Talbot looked at them once, twice, noticed their grinning and his anger fled. He snorted, shaking his head. 

“Alright, you want to play?” Talbot offered. “Let’s play.” 

Without warning, Talbot jerked right again, this time taking them into a flat field and throwing the car into second gear. They churned out in the formation of the number eight, each of them screaming and howling in delight as they clutched at the car and each other in order not to get flung from the front seat. Branson all but held onto Thomas around the waist, in most danger nearest the door. One time, Branson’s hat flew out of his hand and Thomas reached up to grab it- Talbot took advantage and gunned the car so that Thomas almost fell out entirely before Branson grabbed him hard about the waist and jerked him back into safety. He was almost on Branson’s lap and had to clamber off, cheeks hot pink with laughter. 

It had been far too long since Thomas had played with boys his own age. 

They took lunch in a pub before heading back to Downton, the three of them giggling like children even as they took a booth in the back and ordered sandwiches and beer. Thomas didn’t have much, but was struck with generosity as he offered to pay for their meal. The other two were delighted, and so the three of them dined on corn-beef sandwiches hot with melted swiss as snow began to fall outside. Thomas slurped down his beer, surprising both Branson and Talbot who watched him amused. 

“What?” Thomas challenged, hiding a burp as he finished off his beer, “You think a man like me can’t drink?” 

“That’s what you get for assuming.” Branson chuckled, licking his lips as he divulged in his own beer. 

“We’re not all flowery, you know.” Thomas warned, “Some of us do have hair on our chests.” 

“Don’t give away all your secrets!” Branson joked; Talbot took an enormous bite out of his sandwich, famished after his excursion in the fields. 

“Oscar Wilde gives it a bad name.” Talbot said, voice dropping as he looked carefully over his shoulder. “I had a feeling there was diversity in the crowd.” 

“More than you know.” Thomas assured them, beer strengthening his courage. Who could imagine he’d ever be in a pub talking to these two men about the things he hid from the rest of the world over corn-beef? 

“So what are you?” Talbot asked, curious. “If you had to put out an ad?” 

“Well first of all I’m not the kind to put out an ad because I’m not stupid.” Thomas sneered at the mere thought. “That’s how you get in trouble.” 

“Then what are you?” Branson asked, now thoroughly curious. Thomas flushed. How to put it in words? 

“Well.” Thomas mumbled into his beer, finishing it off, “Can’t really say. I’m… me.” 

“Yeah but you don’t go in for those… flowery things-“ Talbot mused. “You don’t look the type.” 

“No. God no.” Thomas shook his head, remembering all the young things he’d seen in London during an age ago when he’d frequented clubs. Far too promiscuous. Far too outspoken. Far too dangerous. Policemen were always on the lookout for those red flags. “Like a bit more down t’earth me.” 

“Don’t we all.” Branson agreed, toasting Thomas with his beer. “So what did you end up getting for Baxter?” He asked, curious. Thomas was grateful for the subject change. It was dangerous to talk about such things openly even if no one said the exact words. You never knew who could be listening. 

“Nothing.” Thomas admitted, starting on his chips, “I’m going to write her a letter.” 

“Mm-“ Branson couldn’t talk through a mouth full of corn-beef, “That’s a thoughtful idea.” He agreed, dabbing at his lips with a napkin, “but who will this be for, then?” and with that he fished into his trouser pocket to pull out a plain black box about the size of a letter. he pushed it across the table to Thomas, who accepted it unsure of what it was. 

He opened it, and gagged- grabbing at his mouth to keep from saying something stupid aloud.

It was the necklace from the shop. 

The labradorite gleamed even in the dull glow of the pub, and Thomas’ fingers-oily from chips- danced fretfully over the shining gold etchings of blooming wheat. He couldn’t believe the nerve of these two men, to go in for a gift that wasn’t even theirs while Thomas packed their car. He closed the lid of the necklace at once, looking over his shoulder to make sure no one else had seen. God forbid if Moseley had been walking through with some teacher chums- 

“I can’t accept this.” Thomas said in a rush, pushing the necklace back. 

“Take it.” Branson urged, putting his hand over Thomas’ and pushing the box right back. His fingers were hot upon Thomas’ own, “For heaven’s sake.”   
“But I can’t repay you, though!” Thomas protested. He tried to push again, but Branson met him head on so that they struggled atop the box for dominance. 

“Take back that bucket of coal and get me something good.” Branson urged with an impish grin, and in that sudden flash of insight Thomas remembered that, among a few things he’d squirreled away after Sybil’s death, he had a poem she’d written while working as a nurse at the hospital. She’d thrown it away but he’d fetched it out of the bin and kept it- it had spoke on the beauty of flowers in spring, mixed with the joy of new birth of birds. How one brought the other, or so it seemed. He could give the poem to Branson, put it in a frame perhaps so that age could never touch the already yellowing paper. Oh yes, he’d like that indeed. Grinning, Thomas finally relented and allowed Branson to push the box to him. 

He pursed his lips, opening the lid of the box again to stare at the beautiful locket. He could not help but smile as he closed the lid of the box. 

It was perfect. Absolutely perfect. He suddenly couldn’t wait for Christmas if only to see the look on Baxter’s face when she realized her gift. 

“Aha!” Branson grinned at Thomas’ smirk, “That’s the grin I like.” 

“I got Mary diamonds.” Talbot offered up. “Do you think it’s too gaudy?” 

“Knowing Mary she’ll be delighted.” Branson joked, finishing his beer. “But I wonder what Bertie got Edith.” 

“I should imagine something for the honeymoon, surely.” Thomas mused with a mouth full of chips. It was no secret they were getting married on the 31st. 

“True!” Branson agreed with Thomas’ cleverness, “He’s taking her to Greece. She doesn’t know it yet.” 

“Of course, you are to be kept in the strictest confidence.” Talbot added in fair warning. Thomas raised his hands in mock surrender over his head. 

“I won’t breath a word.” Thomas said, and he meant it, “Greece would be beautiful this time of year.” He wondered what it was like to travel abroad. To be rich enough to see foreign lands. To be fair he had seen France but… that hadn’t exactly been the best of holidays. No one sent postcards from the frontline. 

“She’s going to love it.” Talbot agreed, “They’ll visit the old sites and sail the Mediterranean.” 

“And Marigold?” Thomas asked, unable to stop himself. His priorities were showing, and it made Talbot smile. 

“She’ll be settled in at Brancaster.” Talbot said. Thomas frowned, looking away. So Marigold was to spend the new year alone in a drafty old castle? He drummed his fingers over his lips nervous. Perhaps he could persuade his lordship to let him go with Marigold- “Oh buck up, old man. Marigold will be well looked after.” 

“Oh I know.” Thomas sighed, for surely she’d have twenty nannies waiting on her every need. But would any of them love her like he did, “I’ll just… miss her is all.” He said softly. 

“We all will.” Branson comforted him. In an attempt to change the dampening tone of conversation, he perked up at once, “So what are you going to get for me.” 

“I’m not telling you!” Thomas warned, unable to keep from grinning. Dear god, Branson was like a child. “Stop asking.” 

Branson reached out, grabbing the box holding the necklace. Suddenly it was a new tug of war, with Thomas pulling the necklace back and Branson trying to take it away. There was no way in hell Thomas was letting go of this necklace now. Not when it was so close to home- 

“It better be good.” Branson grinned. Thomas gave an almighty yank and finally took the necklace back. He slipped the box into his coat pocket at once. 

“It will be.” Thomas promised him, tone ominous and good natured all at once. 

 

Christmas morning dawned bright and clear, the sky as white as the ground, overcast and heavy with snow. It fell at a constant pace, decorating window ledges and tree branches till everything looked like it had been coated in a tub of frosting. 

_Thomas dreamed of Mr. Talbot’s car, but instead of being the passenger he was now the driver. He swerved it left, he swerved it right, the road incredibly bumpy but delightful-_

Except it wasn’t a bumpy road at all. It was three children desperately trying to rouse him from bed. 

“Bawwow!” George was in his ear, shaking him wildly by the shoulders. Sybbie was atop his chest, all but bouncing on the bed as she tried to wake him up. Poor Marigold could do nothing but tug at his arm which hung over the side of the bed. “Bawwow it’s Christmas!” 

“It’s Christmas, Barrow!” Sybbie begged in his ear, bouncing wildly on the bed. 

“Wake!” Marigold blurted loud as a silver bell. 

That got him up. 

Thomas jerked awake, eyes flying open. Sybbie cheered, cheeks flushed with delight. Thomas sat up, looking about, slightly confused. He stared down at Marigold who had a full nappy and keen eyes. How the hell had she climbed out of her crib. 

“Did you just speak?” Thomas asked, breathless. Marigold blinked puzzled at him. “How did she get out of her crib?” Thomas asked other two. 

“Barrow!” Sybbie protested, “It’s _Christmas!”_

“What?” Thomas was jerked from that reverie, “Oh- oh!” As he suddenly realized all the implications. The presents around the enormous Christmas tree downstairs and the buffet table waiting for the family while the servant’s enjoyed their day off. “YES!” Thomas clapped his hands, resting his chin atop his clasped fingers as he grinned cheekily at the children. “Well?” he demanded as the children beamed at him, “What are you waiting for? Go downstairs!” 

The screaming and chaos that ensued could have been compared to a new world war. Sybbie and George bolted for the door, each trying to get through it first as they fled from the nursery room and ran down the hallway shouting for the others to get up. Poor Marigold had to be changed first, but didn’t mind as Thomas picked her up and tugged playfully on her toes. It seemed Sybbie had let her out of her crib, for sure enough the gate was dropped as he entered the nursery. Marigold must have used it like a slide to get down. Such a smart little girl. 

With a changed nappy, Marigold was ready to run. Thomas let her scamper down the hallway at her own pace, following up behind them still in his own pajamas and tousled hair. Marigold could not get up and down the stairs yet without assistance, but he let her try her hand while George and Sybbie screamed themselves silly from the library. Marigold took the stairs one at a time, sliding down on her stomach just like she must have done with her crib. She took delight in being independent, gaining speed as she turned around on her stomach and slid down several steps at a time to reach the second landing. Very clever, very clever indeed. 

Thomas joined her and she reached up with grabbing fingers. Clearly this was too slow for her. Thomas picked her up and hoisted her upon his hip as she took her down the last landing. As he reached the bottom Carson appeared from beyond the green baize door bearing yet another steaming tray full of apple smoked ham gleaming with springs of holly. The screaming from the library could have rivaled a murder. Carson raised a bushy eyebrow as he headed the opposite way towards the dining hall which was still being laid out. 

“If you’re curious it’s Christmas.” Thomas joked, Carson snorted to himself, pausing in his trek. 

“Shall we see you downstairs?” Carson asked. Thomas thought about it, weighing his options. He had presents to give but he could easily give them later. No he’d rather not go downstairs if he could avoid it. 

“…Maybe.” Thomas said, causing Carson to frown, “Let me tend to the children first.”   
Carson looked slightly sad, though Thomas could not gather why. 

As he entered the library he found Sybbie and George digging through the mountain of decorated presents, putting them carefully into piles by particular chairs. Thomas set Marigold down, and she at once went over to investigate the tree. She pointed to particular gifts, babbling loudly. As if by her orders, Sybbie carried each gift to a different pile. Grinning, delighted by the mirth, Thomas relaxed against the back wall and supervised as the children scrambling about in their pajamas. 

_This_ was what Christmas should look like. No sniveling over socks here. 

The first to enter the library were Mr. Pelham and Lady Edith, who’d clearly been woken by the children and were both wearing their house coats. Mr. Pelham was residing at Downton until the wedding in a week, unwilling to part from Lady Edith for even that long. Marigold, upon spotting her mother, toddled over to her at once and flung out her hands squibbling in glee. 

“Happy Christmas!” Lady Edith said in delight, lifting her daughter up to kiss her lovingly upon both cheeks and forehead. 

“We’ll have a good one this year, won’t we cherub?” Mr. Pelham asked, placing his own kiss upon Marigold’s temple. 

Thomas smiled, glad to see Mr. Pelham looking on Marigold as his own daughter. She would live life well, the daughter of a Marquess. 

Of course, this sweet scene was promptly overtaken by wild chaos as Branson entered the library in an open house coat and tousled hair. He looked like he’d rolled right out of bed and run downstairs in an effort to Sybbie all the sooner. Branson threw out his arms wide, grinning delightedly at Sybbie who squealed and ran to him. 

“Daddy!” She shrieked, jumping into his arms, “Daddy, Father Christmas came!” 

“Of course he did!” Branson peppered Sybbie with kisses, spinning her around so that his housecoat swirled about his feet. Thomas was grinning, though he could not say why. He found it oddly endearing that though Mr. Pelham and Lady Edith had on shoes, Branson did not- peach toes poking out beneath the bottom of his pajama trousers, “You’re the best girl of them all!” 

Yes, she was. 

Lady Mary and Mr. Talbot entered next, each much more groomed than Branson though still in their housecoats. George held tight to Lady Mary’s knees, delighted to see his mother. Before they could share much of a moment though Lord Grantham and Lady Grantham entered, with Tiaa bounding after them. The dog took over the chaos, running from one pile of presents to the next to sniff them all. George had to go after her to stop her from taking off bows and ribbons. 

“Happy Christmas, all!” Lord Grantham boasted, as if he were Father Christmas proper and all festivities could begin with his presence announced. There was a round of kissing as Lady Grantham greeted both her daughters and their husbands (or soon to be husbands). 

Thomas hid by the wall, all but mute from the room amid the family delight. He did not belong here. 

He did not belong anywhere. 

Slipping quietly out of the library, Thomas headed across the entrance hall and back upstairs to pick up the nursery which had been left in a tizzy when the children took off. He picks up the beds, the crib, and the laundry. Only then did he dress himself, combing back his hair and putting on a brown suit. As he dressed he thought of the downstairs staff, no doubt sitting down to massive meal and greeting each other with rounds of gift giving and hugs. He thought of Daisy, who had once spoken about the nanny and how she did not envy anyone caught between two worlds never to fit in anywhere. Now Thomas knew exactly what she’d been talking about- 

A soft knock at his bedroom door shocked him. He opened it at once, unsure of who he’d find on the other side, only to pause emotionally as he saw it was Baxter with a sprig of holly in her dark brown hair. She smiled sweetly at him. 

“Happy Christmas.” She said, the first and only to wish him so. 

“Happy Christmas.” Thomas murmured, meaning every word. 

“Come down.” Baxter urged. “We’ve a place set for you and everyone wants you there.” 

“I shouldn’t.” Thomas murmured, turning away to return to his dresser. He put on simple cufflinks, making sure they covered his leather cuffs. Baxter stepped in behind him, surveying his room. 

“Please?” She murmured, “For me?” 

Charmed, Thomas opened his top dresser drawer and pulled out both her and Mrs. Hughes’ gift. He turned, offering her her gift tied in simple red ribbon. She accepted it with a sweet smile, but did not make to open it. 

“Open it.” Thomas murmured, damn eager to see the look upon her face when she saw the locket laying inside. 

“I want to open it with the others.” Baxter said, “With my family.” 

Thomas sighed, shaking his head. Women. 

“Fine.” He said softly, finally won over, “As you wish.” He scooped up Mrs. Hughes gift as he went, heading after Baxter as she left the nursery and made from the green baize door. He could still hear the children shrieking with delight from the library, but as they entered into the servant’s stairwell a new chorus of cries took over. Laughter, gay and deep, filled in with smells of succulent feasts. As they descended together and hit the bottom step, Thomas saw that everything was decked out in holly and thistle. There was even a bit of mistletoe above the servant’s hall door, which were flung wide to show decked with massive trays of food, crackers to be pulled, and a fully roasted turkey which was being sliced by Mr. Carson. Everyone was there with presents around their plate, from Daisy (who hung on Andy’s elbow) to Anna and Bates (who were making sweet faces at each other). Even Mr. Moseley and Mr. Mason had come,cramming the table to the bursting point. There was a place across from Baxter’s seat left blank with a few presents arounds its rim- someone else was obviously coming. Thomas drug a chair from the wall, pulling it to Baxter’s bare right side so that he could sit down between her and Mr. Carson. But even as he attempted to, Daisy called out of him with a hand flung out. 

“No, no!” Daisy chastised him, pointing to the blank chair across from Baxter, “That’s your plate!” 

But it couldn’t be. There were presents around its rim. 

Unsure of what to think, Thomas rose from his borrowed stool to push it back against the wall. Awkward, he walked around the head of the table and sat down at Mrs. Hughe’s right side so that he was now between Mrs. Hughes and Mrs. Patmore. The fire was roaring in the grate- crackers were being pulled by young day maids so that the air was suddenly full of streamers and sparkles. 

He took out Mrs. Hughes’ gift and gently placed it among her enormous pile. Everyone was feasting, and before he could stop the train, Mrs. Patmore loaded up his plate with steaming piles of food. If she thought he was going to be able to consume this entire mountain she was nuts. 

“Happy Christmas.” Thomas offered Mrs. Hughes softly. She smiled lovingly, fingering his gift and stroking the soft red ribbon he’d wrapped it in. 

“Happy Christmas, Thomas.” She replied. 

Baxter placed his gift among her own pile, looking quite pleased with her hoard as she began to feast. Knowing he had absolutely no choice in the matter Thomas tucked in to Christmas turkey and stuffing, watching as Andy pulled a cracker with Daisy and sent paper flowers into the air. Anna was so big now that she could not even pull up to the table properly, and had to have a napkin over her bulging stomach in case she dropped food atop her ‘baby bump’ which was now akin to a ‘baby mountain’. 

If she didn’t give birth soon she was going to need an exorcism. 

Even as Thomas tucked into to roasted vegetables and sweet potato mash, the sound of wild screaming echoing down the stairs gave everyone pause. The wild animated chatter of young voices suddenly broke across the hall- 

“What on earth?” Thomas wondered. 

Sybbie suddenly came around the corner with Branson close behind her. They were both dressed, though Sybbie’s hair was a wreck; best of all she was now wearing her emerald flapper dress so that beads clinked all over the place as she darted around the table and climbed up onto Thomas’ lap. Everyone cooed and laughed, amazed at her sparkling frock; Thomas at once combed his fingers through her tangled hair. His own comb tucked into his vest pocket was dotted with pomade. He couldn’t possibly use it on her hair. 

“Thank you for my dress!” She cried, kissing him upon the cheek. Thomas grinned, stroking her hair as Branson leaned against the door frame and wished everyone a happy Christmas. 

“Thomas!” Mrs. Hughes laughed gayly at Sybbie’s emerald frock. “I don’t know if that’s in any way appropriate for a six year old!” 

“None of the good presents are.” Thomas joked, nuzzling Sybbie’s brow. 

“You forgot your presents!” Sybbie said, Branson raised a hand up, in which small presents were clutched. Thomas scoffed, amazed as Branson walked around the table to place them next to Thomas’ plate. He had a proper hoard now though it was no where near as big as Mrs. Hughes’ or Anna’s. He’d never received so many presents in his life, however, and had absolutely no idea what to say. 

“Are-“ he stuttered, “Surely all of these aren’t for me-“ 

“Mhmm!” Sybbie picked up one rather flat present in particular and pushed it into Thomas’ hands. “This is from me and Georgie and Marigold so you must like it the best-“ 

“I’m sure I will.” Thomas assured her, utterly touched that the children would have even though to get him a gift. 

“Sybbie-“ Branson plucked her off of Thomas’ lap. “We don’t need to be intruding on breakfast. Let’s give Barrow some breathing room!” But before he left he clapped Thomas suddenly upon the shoulder- Thomas almost jumped in shock as he looked up at Branson who was giving him a warm smile. 

“Thank you Thomas.” Branson said, in a voice much to warm and soft for Mr. Carson’s liking who at once narrowed his eyes, “Your gift was truly lovely.” 

“She had a flair for poetry.” Thomas said after a moment, smiling as Branson squeezed him endearingly upon the shoulder. 

“She did.” Branson agreed. “And now I have a new poem to add to my collection.” He headed back around the table with Sybbie on his hip; her green dress clinked and flashed in the light. “Enjoy my gift!” Branson added with a laugh as he headed back up the stairs, “You earned it!” 

“I’m not too sure that’s a compliment!” Thomas called after the man but he was already gone. Holding tight to the children’s present, he set it aside from the others so that he could open it last. It would be his own little reward to himself. The others were laughing resuming their meal even while Mrs. Hughes and Mrs. Patmore continued to chastise him about Sybbie’s dress. 

“I can’t believe you bought that for her!” Mrs. Patmore said. 

“She wanted one!” 

“His lordship will have you for dinner for that-“ Mrs. Hughes warned. 

“Well so long as Mrs. Patmore puts me in the right sauce I’ll taste good.” Thomas quipped, Mrs. Hughes winked cheekily at him. 

“I’ll give you a lemon and butter squeeze.” Mrs. Patmore said, but this was truly ominous for any squeezing done by her hammish grip was bound to leave a bruise. 

“That sounds lightly ominous.” Thomas muttered into his mash, taking another bite. Mrs. Patmore squeezed her large fingers into a fist so that several of her knuckles popped. Thomas’ eyes widened on reflex. Across the table, Baxter choked back a laugh around a mouth full of mulled wine. 

As everyone began opening presents, Thomas held back on his own. He’d never truly opened a present from another person before and didn’t know how to go about it. Mrs. Hughes had a pile to go through, and thanked each person as she wen through their gifts. She got a book of poetry, a new spool of golden thread that she’d apparently wanted to embroider with- and when she got to his gift she smiled as she revealed the cherub pin. 

“Thank you Thomas.” Mrs. Hughes murmured, pinning the brooch to her breast so that it could gleam in the light. Thomas blushed, looking away as Mrs. Patmore leaned in for a closer look.   
“I’m glad you like it.” Thomas mumbled softly.   
“It’s perfect.” Mrs. Hughes assured him. 

Across the table from him, Baxter began to open her gifts. She started with Thomas’ first. 

Without warning, Thomas’ heart jumped in his breast, wild anxiety leaping up inside of him and he suddenly realized that Baxter was about to open an incredibly expensive gift at the table around others- he panicked, pushing his chair back to rise up without warning. 

“I’m uh-“ Thomas stuttered for an excuse, looking at all the torn paper strewn across the room, “I’m going to go fetch a bin for the wrappers.” He left at once just as Baxter opened the black box. 

She gasped, utterly taken aback. Thomas whipped around the corner before she could see him. 

“What did he get you?” He heard Anna ask as he walked hurriedly down the hall towards the laundry room. He knew there were old sacks in here- he could use one to stuff the paper in, and began to rustle through the bottom drawer to find one that was shabby enough not to be missed by firm enough to hold up against the many papers. 

His heart bleated wildly in his breast. He could not sooth it. He kept his head down, frightened of looking up as he heard the door to the pantry open. He just kept rustling through the bags, hands sweating and heart pounding wildly as he felt a soft hand touch him gently by the temple to stroke back a lock of his hair. 

Frightened, Thomas slowly looked around to see Baxter standing with the black box in her hand. There as such love, such devotion in her eyes that Thomas did not know what to do or say anymore. He was afraid now, truly afraid of what she might say or do. Why had he thought it smart to lay his heart out to her? Why, when he’d been hurt so many times b- 

Baxter reached forward, and though on his knees he only came up to her stomach she pulled him forward to cradle his face against the soft fabric of her black dress. Face suddenly full of the flowery smell of her perfume, he hid his burning cheeks in the folds of her frock as she stroked his hair till her fingers were dampened with pomade. 

For a moment they were absolutely silent, Baxter running her fingers through his hair and Thomas holding tightly to the small of her back through her dress. He didn’t know why he needed this- to be held silently after doing a good deed. 

But he could not deny that it soothed some ugly wound inside of him. 

“Thomas…” Baxter whispered, reaching beneath his chin to lift his face up. He went with her touch, rising on his feet till once again he was taller than her and looking down on her with a somber expression. She was dumbstruck, her dark eyes sparkling with unshed tears, “This is…” She dropped her hand from his face to hold the black box with both hands. “This is too fine for me. I can’t- I’m not a lady-“ she stuttered. 

“You are a lady.” Thomas corrected her softly. She fell silent, breast quivering with emotion, “And I never knew a finer one.” 

Now it was her turn to bury her face in his vest. She held him tight, hands locking around his back and Thomas could feel her trembling slightly beneath his touch as he wrapped his arms around her. 

“Oh Thomas.” She sighed softly into his shoulder. “It’s so beautiful. Thank you.” 

But he could not stand to be thanked by her, not after all she’d done for him in the past year. From holding him in his initial waking to spoon feeding him broth and bathing him when he could not be left alone- no one had ever loved him as tenderly as Baxter. No one had ever been so kind to him, had loved him in such a way- 

as if by a mother. 

Thomas buried his face into her neck, squeezing her tightly. She stiffened, seemingly to realize that she’d broken through with him emotionally, and reached up once again to pet his hair. 

“You are an angel.” Thomas mumbled into her collar. “You found me in the dark. You pulled me out of the dark.” 

Baxter leaned back to regard his face, to cup his cheeks and sooth the flushed skin she found there. Without warning she leaned in and kissed him lightly upon the cheek. 

“Gye-“ Thomas pulled back, rubbing viciously at the spot. His heart hammered in his breast. “If you’re curious I don’t like it when women kiss me-“ 

“You’ll get over it.” She laughed tearily, looking down at the black box in her hands again. She opened the lid, staring at the beautiful golden necklace within. She took it out, allowing it to hang glittering in the air, and finally put it around her neck. There, upon her neck, it shone with all the joy and triumph of a queen’s inheritance. The greatest gift of all: Thomas’ love and gratitude. 

Baxter reached up again to cup his face. For a moment she seemed to contemplate saying something, but then she shook her head to declare “You are loved.” Softly. 

“More than you know.” 

Thomas coughed to hide his nerves, running his hand through his hair. 

“Maybe.” He finally conceded. “But so are you.” 

“Then how lucky we are.” Baxter finally agreed. She leaned up one more time, and this time Thomas closed her eyes as she kissed him sweetly upon the cheek. Her lips lingered against his flesh, the first and only woman to know the touch of his skin beneath her mouth. Perhaps she knew that, perhaps she understand hat he’d never had a woman touch him so. Even as she leaned away again, she touched the spot she’d kissed. Thomas looked down on her in wonder, in awe. 

“For all the women who won’t get to kiss you.” Baxter whispered softly, “You’ve deprived the female race of a truly wondrous experience.” 

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Thomas whispered. 

Baxter bent over, taking up the faded sack from the floor. The moment between them was over, but Thomas would never forget the touch of her lips upon his cheek. Not until his dying day. 

The kiss of a woman who loved him. 

“Let’s go back.” Baxter murmured, heading for the door. Thomas followed her at once. She returned to the servant’s hall, the necklace sparkling upon her breast, and as the others viewed it they did so with wide, envious eyes. Anna, Mrs. Hughes, and Mrs. Patmore were regarding Thomas with such smirks that Thomas almost wanted to blush. 

“Mr. Moseley better watch out.” Mrs. Patmore joked. From next to Ms. Baxter, Moseley looked up, glaring slightly at Thomas across the table. 

“I should hope you don’t have feelings for Ms. Baxter.” Mr. Moseley spoke up. Bates all but choked on his turkey, trying his hardest not to laugh. 

Jesus did…   
Did the man not know? 

Thomas looked at Baxter who put her face- bright crimson- into a hand.   
Dear god the man didn’t know. 

Thomas tilted his head to the side, slowly cutting his turkey. 

“Maybe I do.” Thomas said; from across the table Moseley’s eyes flashed. 

“Oh hush and eat your turkey.” Mrs. Hughes stopped him before he could say another word. “Honestly.” 

“You have about as much to fear when it comes to Thomas as you do that cooked turkey-“ Mrs. Patmore consoled Mr. Moseley who relaxed just slightly at the table. Bates was still red in the face, taking a long sip of cider to get through his turkey without choking. 

“Don’t be silly.” Baxter whispered to Moseley softly. His expression relaxed completely, as he continued to cut into his own turkey. 

“I’m sorry, Mr. Barrow- I didn’t mean offense.” Mr. Moseley murmured, “I’m sure you’ll find a nice girl soon. My niece certainly thought you were handsome when she saw a picture of the staff-” 

Bates choked on his cider, nearly spraying it. Anna patted him gingerly upon the back. 

“I…” Thomas fumbled, looking to Baxter for help. She was turning crimson again. “That’s very kind of her.” 

Jesus someone needed to inform Mr. Moseley before he really jammed his foot in his mouth. 

“Ethel always thought you were a looker.” Mr. Moseley added, with a boyish giggle, “I remember one time she begged Anna to slip you a love note but Anna wouldn’t let her because it was improper, of course- still it’s the thought that counts. Lord to think you could been her little boy’s father-” 

Bates was going to make himself sick at this rate, head bowed. He leaned in, and before anyone could stop him Bates whispered something into Moseley’s ear. 

Moseley went white, mouth hung open with a fork full of turkey halfway to the score. He stared at Thomas wide eyed across the table. Thomas just stared at Baxter lips pursed. 

“Why don’t you open your presents-“Mrs. Patmore cut in loudly as Moseley sat his fork full of turkey back down. He turned to look, gaping at Bates who merely shrugged and continued on eating his turkey. Moseley then turned to Baxter, whispering in her ear. She shook her head, giving him a firm look as if to say ‘you need to let it go’. Moseley sat between the pair of them utterly stumped, staring at Thomas like he was a stranger. 

Thomas blinked, raising his eyebrows in a clear challenge. Blushing at being caught, Moseley quickly consumed himself with his vegetables and turkey. 

“Go on, open them.” Mrs. Hughes urged, pushing one towards him and pulling his plate away. Thomas was forced to accept or have his present pushed all the way off the table, and sat nervous as he toyed with the string on his first gift. He finally opened it, feel like he might faint as he opened the lid to see a dark purple tie. He blushed, amazed and looked up to find Mrs. Hughes quite smug as she fingered her new broach. Mr. Carson’s eyes slid from the tie to Thomas’ face, waiting for a reaction. 

“I-“ Thomas could not keep from going scarlet, “Thank you, it’s… it’s wonderful.” He fingered the tie, amazed at its beautiful soft purple. 

“Mr. Carson and I thought it might suit your looks.” Mrs. Hughes said. So this was a joint gift? Thomas gaped, open mouthed, unsure of how to best thank a man he hadn’t even gotten a present for Mr. Carson just took a small sip of wine, unfazed. 

“Now we’ll both be fashionable together.” Mrs. Hughes said. “Go on, open another one.” 

He did so, completely new to this whole process. The next gift was a soft dark blue handkerchief. Once again he was flabbergasted, looking across the table at Baxter who shook her head. If she hadn’t given it to him then who? He looked right to Mrs. Patmore. She took shook her head. 

Then who on earth? Thomas looked about the table. No one was looking at him; no one was coming clean. 

“Well…” Thomas mumbled, “I’ll certainly put it to good use- or try not to-“ He wasn’t sure what to say to such a gift, and folded the new handkerchief several times. He’d never been given such a gift before. It was almost personal. 

“Every gentleman needs one.” Mrs. Patmore agreed. 

Amazed that he still had four more presents to go through, Thomas picked up the next one to open it and find a pair of cufflinks that were carved with clock faces. Chuffed, Thomas smiled to look up and see Baxter beaming from across the table. 

Guilty and caught. 

“It feels a bit silly now.” Baxter murmured, Thomas shook his head, taking off his current cufflinks to put on his new ones. They were wonderful, and he appreciated every inch of them. 

“It’s fantastic.” Thomas said, catching Baxter’s eyes as he flashed his wrists up, “I love them, thank you.” 

“I feel like I did you a wrong turn.” She fingered her own necklace. He scoffed this down. 

“You have never done a wrong turn a day in your life.” Thomas cut her off. What utter nonsense. The final three gifts were from the upstairs, and Thomas was deeply intrigued to see what they were. The first gift he opened had a tag that indicated it was a joint gift from Lady Mary, Lady Edith, Mr. Talbot, and Mr. Pelham. It was, what would you know, another handkerchief though this one was white and made of silk. What was more, it had the initials T.B embroidered into its corner edge. Thomas fingered the fine material amazed. He’d never owned something so nice in all his life, and the heat was creeping back into his cheeks. 

“I don’t know what I did to deserve this.” Thomas murmured softly. 

“I’m sure it has something to do with caring for the children.” Mrs. Hughes mused. 

“It’s hardly a chore.” Thomas mumbled, stowing both his new handkerchiefs in his breast pocket. He patted his cheeks, trying to get the heat out of his face, and then made to open the next gift which, silly enough, was from Branson. 

He opened it to realize with a snort that it was a book entitled _“Etiquette for Men”_ by G.R.M. Devereux. Along with it came a note in Branson’s scrawled handwriting: 

_“The Dowager gave this to me when I married Sybil. Thought you’d get as much use out of it as I did- or a laugh! —T.B”_

It included topics of all sorts, from the art of conversation to table etiquette and letter writing. He shook his head, showing the title to Baxter who tittered behind her hand. 

“He thinks he’s very funny.” Thomas said, re opening the book to a particularly charming notion about how to ask a lady to a dance. It seemed there were 500 steps one had to go through before offering out your actual hand. Thomas glanced back up to find Mr. Carson was narrowing his eyes. “I doubt I’ll ever be able to use this but I’m sure it’ll be most illuminating.” 

Mr. Carson nodded, saying no more as he looked back down a new Christmas present from Mrs. Hughes that seemed to be a book of essays on cultural change. He read them avidly. 

Now it was time for his final gift from the children. He rubbed his hands together gleeful. 

“I’m going to enjoy this.” He murmured, and gently pulled back the gold ribbon to reveal a fine picture frame encased in small ornate flowers. 

The picture was of the children. Sybbie sat in the center with Marigold on her lap, looking dutifully ahead as she held Marigold still. By her side, holding to her shoulder was George, looking slightly put out for being scrubbed and starched into his Sunday best. Thomas gaped, amazed; when could this picture have possibly taken place? The only time that the children had been away from his care for long enough to get a picture done was the day he’d gone… 

Of course. The day he’d gone to get presents. No wonder Lady Grantham had given him the day off. 

“Oh how lovely.” Mrs. Hughes crooned at the photo. Thomas could not help but beam, tenderly stroking the glass. 

“They look furious.” Thomas laughed softly, growing rather emotional, “They had to get me out of the house to take this photograph… I’ll cherish this picture forever.” 

“You’ve done well.” Mrs. Hughes said with glowing pride, her voice slightly cheeky, “I say we both had a good haul.” 

“Happy Christmas to me.” Thomas said, rather choked up. 

 

It would be five years before Thomas found out that Bates was the one who gave him the blue handkerchief. 

 

As soon as gift giving was over and the wrappers were thrown away into the offered sack, Thomas went upstairs to deposit his new gifts in his room. He put his book and his new photograph upon his beside table. He returned downstairs to take back the children, but found his position as Nanny was once again being put on hold for the annual gift giving between master and servants. Lord Grantham had the entire staff lined up in the entrance hall, with Lady Grantham bearing a basket of gifts that he passed out one at a time as he went down the line. Bates got a box of Cuban cigars, a gift for his soon-to-be-state of fatherhood. Anna got a silver rattle, quite a gift which she gloated and gleamed over as she toyed with its beaded handle. Baxter received a set of gold earrings from Lady Grantham which, funnily enough, matched her new necklace. Then it was Thomas’ turn, and as Lord Grantham came to stand before him Thomas stiffened his back at once. The children were toying around with their new presents, delighted, but they were also causing a ruckus as George tried to skewer Marigold with a toy sword. Thomas made a sharp noise between his teeth, catching George’s attention, and he at once dropped the wooden sword to play nice. Lord Grantham chuckled, shaking his head. 

“Thomas, Quite a year you’ve had.” Lord Grantham praised. “I hope this gift makes up for it.” Lady Grantham offered him a square box from her basket of goods, and Thomas accepted it at once with a demure bow of his head. 

“I have to admit.” Lord Grantham joked as Thomas gently undid the ribbon upon his box, “I got quite a laugh out of my own gift this morning.” 

“I hope it pleased your lordship.” Thomas said. 

“Oh enormously!” Lord Grantham beamed, “An 1850’s Neillo from Russia! How you came across it I’ll never know-“ 

“Well I had no idea it was all that.” Thomas blustered, “I just thought of you when I saw the labrador.” 

“It was probably from some poor devil who had to flee St. Petersburg.” Lord Grantham mused, “I’ll take very good care of it, as I hope you will yours.” 

Thomas opened the box, and his eyes lit up and the incredible pocket watch that lay inside. It was made of rose gold, with three separate faces. One wasn’t even ticking at all, which caught Thomas’ interest at once. He took the watch out, and stroked the fine glass front. 

“I wonder what you can tell me?” Lord Grantham joked. 

“This is a Thomas Hardy.” Thomas murmured, checking the the symbols on the front for signature and date stamp, “originated in Nottingham, probably around.. 1815? Gilded verge movement-“ he said, clicking the top to set the time right. Instead, one of the dials took off, and Thomas realized with glee that it was a stopwatch! “It’s a stopwatch too!” he declared with delight. 

“I thought you might get quite a bit of enjoyment out of that.” Lord Grantham said with a calm smile. 

“Thank you my lord.” Thomas murmured. “Thank you it’s truly incredible.” Yet as he stroked the watch and Lord Grantham walked to the next servant, Thomas felt an engraving on the underside of the watch and looked to see what it was. 

_T.B_.   
_1925 Conquered_

 

Christmas done and dusted brought warm cheer to the house. George was infatuated with his horse, a fine golden stallion which he called ‘Champion’. With snow on the ground, George could hardly ride far or fast, but instead he allowed Champion to be lead about a constructed ring under strict supervision from Thomas and the groomsman, Mr. Meikle. George looked like a right little prince, clad in hat, boots, red riding jacket and white pants… he constantly begged to be allowed to race or jump only to be shot down by Mr. Meikle who warned him that one should never push a horse past the point of their own limitations. 

“Champion can jump just fine!” Mr. Meikle warned in a thick Scottish brogue, “But you’ll be thrown from the reigns, little master.” 

The thought made Thomas go cold. 

The day before Lady Edith’s wedding saw Thomas packing Marigold’s many valises while she slept through a nap in her crib. Desperate to keep from thinking about her impending departure, Thomas instead busies himself with mending her wardrobe one last time. She’d need plenty of coats, and hats where she was going, and so he’d had to drag up an extra valise just to pack them all as Lady Grantham supervised the entire adventure. 

“It’s so cold up North,” she mused worriedly, bending over to observe Thomas packing Marigold’s valise with practiced hands, “I hope we’ve packed enough coats.” 

“I think we’re well on our way, M’lady.” Thomas assured, “Coats, mittens, scarves- she’ll hardly be able to move her arms.” 

“And of course all her favorite toys.” Lady Grantham added, “Nothing was left out?” she asked. 

“Nothing, M’lady, save for her bear.” Thomas added, for sure enough Marigold held onto it even as she slept. 

“Do one more check just to be sure.” Lady Grantham begged. Thomas bobbed his head demurely at once. 

“Of course, M’lady.” 

 

Lady Rose returned from America with Atticus Aldridge, delighted to see the family again and be present for Lady Edith’s wedding. If all the chaos in the house wasn’t enough to contend with, Mr. Carson was acting bizarrely out of character. Dodging questions and hiding himself in his office for hours on end, he seemed determined to slip by unnoticed in the house. But for someone as big as Mr. Carson, both in stature and in size, he’d have better luck hiding an elephant behind a tree. 

As Thomas headed down the gallery hall with Marigold’s valises in hand, he bumped into Branson who- without asking- took a valise from him and helped him to carry the enormous load down the main stairs to the entrance hall where the bitter chauffeur sat waiting. 

“Have you seen Mr. Carson?” Branson asked, “He’s a nervous wreck.” 

“I have.” Thomas admitted as they hit the bottom and made a bee line for the door. All around them maids were ushering in flowers— white roses. “Though I don’t know what it’s about.” 

“Well try to find out. Mary’s horribly worried.” Branson added, “The other night he wouldn’t fetch wine for his Lordship.” 

“What?” Thomas demanded. They stepped outside and at once began to pile Marigold’s valises on the back of a motorcar which would take her luggage to the station for her journey to Brancaster after the wedding tomorrow. Thomas strapped down the luggage tightly, wrists stinging slightly at the strain, “that’s ridiculous. Carson would fetch a feather for his lordship if given half the chance.” 

“As I say.” Branson agreed, “Maybe you should look into it.” 

They headed back inside, both of them bound for the stairs. “Have you been reading my book?” 

“Absolutely not.” Thomas sneered, though to be fair he had glanced through the pages just for a laugh once or twice.

“It’s rather pretentious isn’t it?” Branson mused as they reached the top of the stairs and headed back for the nursery, “Their lot think they hold the monopoly on honor but they’re wrong.” 

“I suppose you never looked through it either?” Thomas wondered, trying to imagine Branson desperately scouring the pages to court Lady Sybil. 

“I tried to give it a go.” Branson admitted, unashamed, “but it all seemed so horribly snooty. It doesn’t take a car manual to know how to be a gentleman.” And just to prove his point he opened the door to the playroom for Thomas and held it wide. 

“Why thank you, Mr. Branson.” Thomas bobbed his knees, making for an awkward curtsey. 

“My pleasure, Mr. Barrow.” Branson said in a voice that would be better suited on Spratt than himself. 

 

Determine to figure out what on earth was wrong with Carson, Thomas took a minute while Marigold was still napping to head downstairs and fetch tea for Sybbie and George. As Mrs. Patmore prepared a tray, Thomas knocked upon Mrs. Hughes’ sitting room door, and opened it wide to find her at her desk with paperwork for the wedding up to the elbows. 

“Mrs. Hughes.” Thomas greeted her. She beamed, and Thomas realized he was wearing her purple tie. He shut the door behind him to give them some privacy, knowing if Mr. Carson found out what he was up to he’d be furious. 

“Mr. Barrow.” Mrs. Hughes took off her glasses, rubbing at her straining eyes which were starting to go slightly red around the edges, “What can I do for you?” 

Thomas rubbed his fingers together, wondering how best to word this, “Well, I was actually wondering if there was anything I could do for Mr. Carson.” Thomas admitted. 

Mrs. Hughes looked taken aback.

“It’s just… for his condition?” Thomas murmured softly. 

Mrs. Hughes relaxed back in her chair with a soft sigh, looking oddly dismayed as she shook her head. 

“I won’t ask how you know.” She muttered, her tone rather dry as if she thought he’d been snooping, “But there’s nothing to be done, I’m afraid. It’s hereditary.” 

“And… there’s no medication to take?” Thomas asked, fishing in the dark for more details. 

“None so far as I’m aware of.” Mrs. Hughes admitted bitterly, pursing her lips together for a moment before carrying on, “But it’s kind of you to offer.” She smiled warmly at him, “Are you feeling any better? Only that the other night with Mr. Bates… I suppose you won’t be surprised if I tell you that a few of us overheard-“ 

“Mrs. Hughes-“ Thomas cut her off, for what more could honestly be said on this subject anymore? “I don’t want to talk about this anymore. Ever again. If that’s alright… I just…” He suddenly felt as if he was being rude, and Mrs. Hughes was the last woman alive who deserved his rudeness, “I just don’t want to discuss it.” 

“As you wish.” Mrs. Hughes said, her tone soft and calm, “I respect that.” 

 

As the day of Lady Edith’s wedding finally arrived, the abbey turned from stately home into flower factory so that every banister, door knob, and table was suddenly covered in white roses fresh from the village and the elder Mr. Moseley. Though Thomas was still technically nanny, he likewise spent a fair bet of time helping Mr. Carson and Andy set up flowers. The front rug of the main hall was rolled up, chairs and sofas were stowed, and the maids did a thorough round of cleaning directed by Mrs. Hughes. It was all hands to the pump once again, making the abbey look like she was twenty years with every servant in their Sunday best and Lady Edith glowing in a white gown upstairs. Mr. Pelham was already in the village under strict instructions that he couldn’t return to the abbey even if his life depended upon it. 

In a way, it did. 

Upstairs with the children, Thomas prepared each of them for the wedding- in particular Marigold who would be an honorary flower girl though she would not be walking down the aisle. She kept looking around the playroom, perhaps wondering where all her toys and clothes were, and seemed fitful as Thomas gently brushed her hair and dressed it up in flowers. Primped and pampered, Marigold sat on Sybbie’s bed sucking her thumb fretfully as Sybbie sat in Thomas’ lap next with her hands in her lap and allowed him to brush her hair. Despite her begging she would not be wearing her emerald green flapper dress to the wedding and instead would wear a peach dress with silk and thin strips of pearl at the neck. Humming in her ear, Thomas brushed her hair till she slowly closed her eyes, soothed. 

A knock at the door gave Thomas pause, but it was only Branson dressed in his Sunday best with a red silk tie. Thomas felt slightly shabby in his own brown suit compared to Branson who looked incredibly dapper with slicked back hair and a boutonnière. Though he’d never say it aloud, Branson looked incredibly handsome just now with the sun catching in his hair and charming brown eyes. He seemed mirthful, like he brought the sun with him no matter what room he drifted into. Smiling at him, Thomas continued to brush his daughter’s hair as Branson sat down on George’s bed next to George who was kicking his legs impatiently and waiting his turn. 

“Ready for the wedding?” Branson asked. 

“Nearly.” Thomas said. “I wanted to fix her hair just so.” He paused, catching Branson’s eyes as he continued to brush Sybbie’s hair, “I have news on the Carson front.” 

“Report, soldier.” Branson joked. 

“It’s an illness, and whatever it is it’s hereditary and without a medication.” 

“He couldn’t hold things without dropping them.” Branson mused, “His hands were shaking fiercely.” 

Shaking hands? Lack of grip? It could only be one thing. 

“Well then, that’s it.” Thomas said softly. “It’s palsy.” 

Branson sighed, eyes flying wide as he relaxed against the wall and lolled his head upon the paper. “That’s him done for. How will he take it?” 

“It’s difficult to say.” Thomas said, straightening the neck of Sybbie’s dress and helping her to put on her mother’s pearls and lace gloves. 

“It’s hard to imagine Downton without Carson.” Branson admitted. 

“I quite agree.” Thomas said, for even as he reasoned with the idea of Carson having palsy he could not imagine the man ever stepping down. How would the next butler ever cope with Carson’s enormous shadow? Even in his eventual death, Carson would run the house with an iron fist. Thomas snapped a pearl beret into Sybbie’s hair, locking it into place by her ear. “Alright darling, you’re done.” she hopped off his lap at once to hop up into her father’s. “Please don’t soil your dress.” He begged, for the entire thing was like a Russian circus tent to get on and off. “George?” At once, George jumped from the bed and bounded into Thomas’ arms. 

“Sit still and let me brush your hair before we go.” Thomas murmured, and at once George was as still as a statue in Thomas’ lap as Thomas sat down Sybbie’s fine hair brush to pick up a comb he often used for himself. George seemed delighted to be finally getting a chance at pomade, and his blonde hair gleamed like gold in the sunlight as Thomas carved it into the perfect shape. 

Palsy…” Thomas sighed softly as he helped George to put on a small boutonniere. In an effort to make him even more like a gentleman, Thomas lent him his own silk handkerchief that he’d gotten for Christmas, folding it several times and tucking it into George’s pocket so that he suddenly appeared like a miniature dapper dan. 

“Edith wants you to sit next to me at the wedding.” Branson requested. Thomas looked about surprised as Branson grinned from the bed with Sybbie at his side. “Do you think you can manage it? You were never a church going man.” 

“I never saw the point.” Thomas admitted, “Don’t imagine the preacher will be too happy to find me in the front row, do you?” 

“Sod him.” 

George was finished and with no time to spare. They really needed to head to the church, and so Thomas took Marigold into his arms with George and Sybbie bounding out after him through the play room door. 

“Alright-!” Thomas called after the children, forcing them to slow up, “Stay decent until we arrive to the church! No running about. We have to look presentable for your aunt!” This was good timing for Thomas, for even as he finished Lady Mary and Mr. Talbot emerged from their own rooms with Anna following up behind holding one of Lady Mary’s best coats. She was practically waddling from the weight of her pregnant stomach. Lord and Lady Grantham were already downstairs with Baxter and Bates, both of whom were helping them into coats. As they headed down the stairs (poor Anna in last place and having to clutch at the rail), Thomas promptly handed Marigold off to Lady Grantham who accepted her at once with a beaming smile. Lord Grantham looked an image from 1850 with his black top hat and glistening ivory cane. Here was when the class divide took its true hold, for when would Thomas ever wear such finery in all his life? He held no ill will at that moment, though he did feel exceptionally underdressed in his brown suit and purple tie. He didn’t even match with his dark blue handkerchief sticking out of his pocket. 

With his arms now free, Sybbie took up one of his hands, grabbing Branson by the other. The pair of them were thus forced to walk out together in the same pace, Sybbie dragging them along from the middle. Outside several cars lay waiting along with a wagonette in which Thomas could already see Mr. Carson, Mrs. Patmore, Mrs. Hughes, Daisy, and Andy waiting. As they finally reached the car, Thomas and Branson helped Sybbie to hop inside. 

“Alright darling.” Thomas said as he helped George to climb up after her. The pair of them shifted in their seats as Lady Mary and Mr. Talbot got in the car next along with Branson who took Sybbie onto his lap to make for more room. “Stay safe.” He closed the car door. 

“No, sit with me!” Sybbie protested; Thomas could never see him clambering into Branson’s lap though, the thought making him blush. 

“I’m afraid that’s just not how it’s done.” Thomas murmured apologetically. Sybbie and George looked quite downcast. “We’ll see each other at the church.” Thomas assured her; one car ahead, Lady Grantham was climbing inside with Marigold between them. Her valises were strapped to the back. “Be good.” Were Thomas’ parting words as he finally walked away towards the wagonette with Bates, Anna, and Baxter. Poor Anna took quite a bit of lifting, having to be helped up by Andy from the front and Thomas and Bates from the bottom. As she finally tottered into her seat, she all but collapsed exhausted. Thomas got in last, helped up by Baxter, Andy, and Bates so that he closed the back of the wagonette and locked it from the inside. Bates used his cane to whap the side of the wagonette, alerting their driver that they were ready to go, and at once the horses took off at a sharp trot behind the many oiled cars. 

Anna, for whatever reason, looked oddly flushed even in the cool winter air. 

Thomas kept an eye on Carson from the back of the wagonette, and noted that his hands were shaking so wildly that he had to put them in his pockets to keep from raising alarm. 

_Damn_ , Thomas thought bitterly. 

They arrived at the church, and as Thomas let down the back gate he helped Anna out carefully before rejoining the children and walking Sybbie and George into the church. Marigold looked incredibly nervous now, hiding her face in Lady Grantham’s swan like neck and sucking hastily upon her thumb. There was far too much excitement for her taste, far too much fanfare and people who wanted to get a good look at the ‘ward’. Thomas watched from afar, worried a tantrum wasn’t far off. Branson joined him in the crowd, picking Sybbie up so that she wouldn’t get lost in the crowd. Thomas picked up George, worried for the same thing. 

“It’s definitely palsy.” Thomas told Branson as they entered the church- dear god if every angle was covered in white roses. Had they imported the blasted things in from every inch of England? 

“Should we tell Mary?” Branson asked as they watched Lady Mary and Mr. Talbot take their places up front. 

“It’s not Mary to worry about it’s his Lordship.” Thomas warned, for Lady Mary wasn’t the one holding the pocket book to the abbey, “And we can’t say anything now or we’ll spoil the wedding.” 

“Then let’s wait till afterwards.” Branson agreed. Thomas sat the children down with their parents before making his way back to where the servants sat. Despite Edith’s longing for him to pose with the family he didn’t feel comfortable with and happily took a seat next to Anna who looked like she might vomit in her brown hat and coat. They were an odd brown couple, with Bates on the other side busying himself as he read a pamphlet for the days service. 

“You managed to get away then?” Anna asked, smiling at him. 

“Don’t worry.” Thomas grinned, speaking softly lest others around him overhear. “I have a feeling the rod of iron awaits my return.” 

“How’s it going?” Anna asked, “Are you getting on with Branson?” 

“Well there isn’t much to get on with.” Thomas admitted for despite liking Branson very much ( _very much?_ he wondered) he was still Sybbie’s father and a member of the family. Even if they were happy together, they were still master and servant. Oddly. 

“But don’t you enjoy it more?” Anna asked softly. Thomas raised an eyebrow, “Than being at war with all the world.” 

She had a point there; Thomas tilted his head back and forth, relaxing a little in the pew as Anna continued to fan herself with her own pamphlet. 

“I supposed.” He mused, unsure of what else to say. The marbles certainly had been quiet lately… but he knew they were still in there. He noticed Anna was still looking incredibly flushed, “What’s the matter?” he asked. 

“It’s just a bit hot in here.” Anna muttered, looking oddly faint. He wondered if he should fetch her a glass of water. 

But even as Thomas began to settle, the tell tale sound of a high pitched whimper caught his attention. Marigold was about to cry, face screwed up and bright pink from terror as she sniveled and sighed. Rising up at once, Thomas scooted out of the pew and headed down the side aisle to take Marigold from Lady Grantham who fretted nervously for her state. Lady Edith would soon arrive with Lord Grantham- now was not the time for a tantrum. 

“Oh, Barrow-!” Lady Grantham looked utterly relieved as he took Marigold back, “Thank goodness. Could you care for Miss Marigold. She’s nervous.” Branson watched, sadly intrigued as Thomas carried Marigold away at once and took her out the side of the church into a quiet courtyard full of holly and wood whites that were just about to leave for their yearly migration to god knows where. They danced around Marigold’s hair as she sniveled into Thomas’ neck, touching upon her fresh flowers in the hope of getting new nectar. 

She’d gotten overstimulated. Her favorite toys were gone from the nursery and her clothes were missing from the wardrobe. She didn’t understand why everything was changing and wanted the calm normalcy of Downton. Thomas kissed her brow, rocking her back forth till she no longer cried and instead sat calm in his arms. 

“Hush now, what are you worried for?” Thomas whispered softly, plucking a bit of holly from a bush so that Marigold could observe it up close. A wood white perched precariously upon it, spreading its small white wings to the weak December sun. 

“Look, look at this.” Thomas urged. Marigold blinked bleary eyes, sucking her thumb as she observed the wood white up close. “Look, it’s a butterfly. How pretty.” 

Marigold watched entranced as the wood white continued to sun bathe. After a moment, it fluttered up into the air then landed upon the knuckle of Thomas’ ungloved hand, perhaps finding him warmer than the holly. The touch was so incredibly light that he couldn’t have noticed it unless he was looking at the wood white directly. 

“Amazing.” Thomas said with slightly more awe than strictly necessary. Marigold reached out, trying to touch the butterfly with her chubby fist. It fluttered away at once, far too swift to be caught by a toddler, and she watched it go unfazed. Wiping the tears from her cheeks, Thomas tapped her swiftly upon the nose. “Shall we go back in?” He asked, “Shall we be good?” 

Marigold sucked on her thumb, burying her face in his neck. He turned, and headed back inside. 

The church was growing tense with the impending arrival of Lady Edith and Lord Grantham. Clearly the car was out front; Thomas could hear the cheering of the crowd begin to issue from the doors as the villagers came to bid Lady Edith all the best. Knowing he had very little choice in the matter lest he wanted Marigold to suffer another tantrum, Thomas moved into the pew with the rest of the family and was at once warmly welcomed in by both Branson and Lady Mary who scooted apart to make room. The Dowager looked wary, eyes narrowing and goose neck wobbling; Lord and Lady Merton were quite wrapped up in one another, looking as blissful as if it was their own wedding they were attending not Lady Edith’s. 

“Is she alright?” Branson asked. Between them, Sybbie reached out and tugged at Marigold’s dress to capture attention. The pair of them began to play with Branson’s boutonniere, which he’d clearly handed over to stave off the oncoming boredom. On Lady Mary’s lap, George was perched absolutely silent, the perfect gentleman. 

“Fine.” Thomas murmured, to the contentment of both Lady Mary and Branson who smiled and relaxed in the pew. “Just nervous.” 

 

The wedding was splendid, which was a surprise to no one, and the wedding reception that followed was likewise just as glorious. The servants left the wedding just as soon as they were able, each of them clambering into the wagonette before heading back to the Abby to change and prepare to serve. Thomas missed the ride, having to hand off Marigold to Lady Pelham who gave him the most bizarre expression as she took Marigold from him and put her in the car. 

“I have the oddest sensation I’ve seen your face before.” She’d murmured, only to suddenly go gray and cold, her expression icy as she got in the car and promptly slammed the door in his face. Thomas had watched the car drive away, unable to say goodbye to Marigold, and wondered what on earth he’d done wrong. 

Though he had a feeling he knew. 

Slightly depressed, Thomas rode back to the abbey with Lady Mary, Mr. Talbot, and Branson, holding tightly to George as he considered that despite living in a cradle of comfort at the abbey there were those who would gladly filet him alive for being a homosexual that dared to comfort children. It only made him want to comfort the children more. 

When they finally returned to the abbey, Thomas suddenly found himself besieged by not only his own children but six others who were members of the extended wedding party and eager to play with George’s ‘favorite horse’. Thomas considered it quite an honor to be a better horse than a pure bred stallion that cost 50 quid, and sat willingly with the whole brood as they ate cake and climbed all over him. The youngest was an infant no older than six months who sat sleeping in her older sister’s arms till Thomas took over so that she could eat some cake. Cooing to an infant he did not even know, Thomas won over the mother who laughed gayly as he stuck out his tongue and made silly faces to keep the baby calm. 

Lady Edith was glowing on the arm of Bertie Pelham, whisking about the room to greet her admirers dripping in pearls. For the first time in her life, Lady Mary had to take the backseat to her younger sister but she didn’t seem to mind. Instead she relaxed at Mr. Talbot’s side, looking up into his face adoringly. 

Thomas tried not to feel jealous… but it was very hard. 

As the evening turned into night and party just kept rolling, the children went home and George had to go to bed. Sybbie stayed up, determined to mingle with the adults, while Thomas got George ready for bed. It amused him to no end that George had hidden a small chocolate heart in Thomas’ silk handkerchief- a snack for later. It would mean a laundering but Thomas didn’t care. He was utterly charmed by George: he ruled Thomas with a rod of iron. 

Heading back downstairs as the sun set and Lady Edith prepared to leave with Mr. Pelham, Thomas accepted a glass of wine from Andy and hid in the back corner to watch the festivities. Branson drifted through the crowd with Sybbie at his side, showing her off to doting women and long distance family members. Sybbie was starting to yawn though she tried to hide it; when she saw Thomas in the corner she went to join him at once and buried her face in the back of his thigh. Thomas lifted her up, hoisting her so that she could rest her head upon his shoulder as he continued to drink wine. Branson followed after him, grinning easily as he side stepped into Thomas corner and drank his own wine. 

“Darling, it’s getting very late.” Thomas murmured, for it was almost nine at night, “Let’s go upstairs and go to bed-“ 

“No…” Sybbie grumbled into Thomas’ neck, “I want to see Aunt Edith leave.” 

“Alright.” Thomas would not fight with her. Branson just tutted, gentle and amused. Sybbie sat up in his arms, sniffed, and leaned over to examine his crystal wine glass. 

“Can I try?” she asked. 

“Why are you so curious to taste wine?” Branson asked, “What good could it possibly do you?” 

“I’m a princess!” Sybbie said defiantly. Branson laughed aloud, but immediately had to stop as she glared at him thunderstruck. Clearly this was not a laughing matter to her. 

“Alright princess.” Thomas chuckled, offering her his wine glass. She grabbed it with both hands to lift it clumsily to her lips, “Have some of mine.” 

She took a hearty sip, but nearly choked as she grimaced and swallowed with haste, coughing bitterly. 

“Eww!” She cried aloud, now more distraught than ever. 

“Good girl.” Thomas laughed, downing his wine and finishing it off with one swig. Branson took his glass from him so that he could hold Sybbie with both hands. 

“And we’ll have no more of that.” Branson chuckled, content. 

“It taste awful!” Sybbie cried out in dismay, looking from her father to Thomas as if they were mad, “Why do you drink it?” 

“I don’t drink it for the taste.” Thomas said, “I drink it to overpower the taste of other bad people in my life.” 

“Cheers to that!” Branson said gleefully, nudging Thomas in the shoulder. He toasted them both and finished off his own wine glass. 

They headed back through the crowd to deposit their glasses and pick up some more, but were stopped by the sight of Carson flustered, hands shaking violently as he tried to pour more wine for Andy. 

“Can’t pour the bloody stuff-!” Carson blurted out. Thomas was taken aback- he’d never heard Carson curse in his life. At once, he handed Sybbie to Branson who accepted her so that he could intervene. 

“Excuse me-“ Thomas cut through the crowd like a knife, eager to diffuse the tension around the wine table. 

“Mr. Carson, let me pour for you-“ Thomas broke in. Carson huffed and puffed, setting down the crystal decanter to mop at his sweaty brow. 

“Mr. Barrow, you are here as a guest.” Mr. Carson said, slightly affronted. 

“I’m happy to help, Mr. Carson,” Thomas urged. This was slightly ridiculous- the wine needed to be poured and he had two hands. Did it matter if he was nanny, underbutler, valet, or footman? 

The scene had caught the attention of both Lord Grantham and Lady Mary. They watched unsure as Andy stood between the opposing pair with a tray full of unfilled glasses, biting his lip. Carson would not give, but Thomas would not sway- the pair of them had effectively become brick walls. Up came Mrs. Hughes, taking to Mr. Carson’s side to 

“…Carson…” Lord Grantham spoke up, eyes flashing with a dawn of inspiration, “I know the answer.” 

Carson looked nervous as if he imagined Lord Grantham was going to urge that they all be put on the chopping block for pouring wine incorrectly. 

“You and Mrs. Hughes will stay in your cottage, but what if we were to ask Barrow to be the new butler-“ 

What. 

Thomas whipped around, eyes wide as he looked from Lord Grantham, to Lady Mary, to Carson. Why was Thomas the only one that looked nervous? 

“Carson, the elder statesman would steer things as he’s always done…” Lord Grantham assured Carson softly. Carson looked incredibly touched, “What do you think, Carson? You’ll have a pension from the estate.” 

“You can’t pretend Barrow isn’t sufficiently experienced?” Lady Mary offered softly. 

“No, I wouldn’t say that M’lady.” Carson mused. Thomas flushed as Carson eyed him with queer if genuine pride. “I trained him.” 

Thomas relaxed, each muscle dropping till Thomas and Carson were staring at one another with single focus. Between William, Alfred, and Andy, Thomas had never been the apple of Carson’s eye. Yes, Thomas had been trained by Carson, but so had everyone else in the house. Even Daisy had been given a tip or two. To have Carson look on him with pride and to insist that he had trained Thomas for the position of butler it felt… 

It felt…   
Good. 

“Well, Barrow?” Lady Mary spoke up; Thomas jolted, realizing he’d just been gazing at Carson like he was a father figure, “Would you like to be butler here?” 

The idea was tantalizing. It was the top of the career ladder and would guarantee Thomas a place at Downton for the rest of his life. Even in changing times, Butlers could become house managers- Thomas had seen it before. He could make a comfortable living, save up, god only knows what could happen next… maybe one day he could have a cottage too. Maybe. On the other hand he wouldn’t be nanny anymore… but at least he wouldn’t have to part from the children entirely. the thought made him sick to his stomach. 

“Certainly, M’lady.” Thomas replied softly. He felt like he was hallucinating; like any minute someone would walk up and say “Surprise! You dumb Dora!” 

“That’s settled then.” Lord Grantham paused, offering both men a smile, “Barrow will stay on as Nanny until we find a new one, at which time he’ll take over as Butler on a date that suits you both.” 

Jesus christ. This was actually happening. This was actually honestly happening. 

Lord Grantham clapped Carson gently upon the shoulder, squeezing the tense flesh he found there. They shared a longing look with one another before Lord Grantham and Lady Mary headed back off into the crowd. 

Now Carson and Thomas were left staring at one another amazed. What could he say? should he apologize for something- for taking Carson’s job even if the man did have shaky hands- 

“I don’t want to force your hand, Mr. Barrow.” Carson said. 

“And I don’t want to twist your arm, Mr. Carson.” Thomas replied. 

He didn’t know what Mr. Carson had been expecting him to say, but he doubted it was that. The look upon Carson’s was one Thomas had never seen directed at him before; misty eyed pride that even hinted at bizarre patriarchal love. Thomas had never been looked at in such a way- as if by a father. 

And suddenly his eyes were burning. He looked way at once, determined to keep control of his facial muscles in the middle of a crowded party. 

“…I think his lordship has found a solution.” Mrs. Hughes said softly, rubbing Mr. Carson’s arm softly, “And we should be glad of that.” 

She walked Mr. Carson to the green baize door, letting him slip through and out of sight of the party so that suddenly Thomas was the one left standing by the wine tray with Andy before him and a thirsty crowd to appease. At once, Thomas took back up the decanter and poured wine for Andy’s tray.   
“Wow.” Andy said, quite bleak. 

“Wow indeed.” Thomas muttered, nothing more could be said, “Make sure his lordships’ glass is full.” With a fresh round of glasses, Andy took off, disappearing into the crowd. To keep ahead of the flow, Thomas poured another round till every glass on the table was full. Careful not to be in the way, Branson walked around the back side of the table and stood next to Thomas as he surveyed Andy scooting through the crowd. 

“What was that?” Branson asked, curious. 

“…I’m going to be the new butler.” Thomas admitted, continuing to pour glasses. Branson set both their empty ones down and Thomas filled them up at once. 

“Really?!” Sybbie squeaked, delighted. 

“Really.” Thomas said, giving her a gentle smile. Branson let out a weird sound of choked air, utterly amazed. 

“Well that’s sudden.” Branson blustered, looking slightly dumbstruck. 

“Not really.” Thomas admitted, for if anyone in the house was going to take over the position he was the obvious candidate. Andy was too young, Bates was the valet- who else could take over? No, Carson hadn’t done it out of pride. He’d done it out of necessity. Thomas had been silly to think Carson had looked on him with anything other than reluctant contempt. “Carson will stay on as the elder statesman, he’ll still technically be the showman of the house.” 

“But do you honestly want to be fully in charge?” Branson asked. Thomas shook his head, the idea slightly overwhelming to swallow. 

“No.” Thomas admitted, “I don’t think I could handle the strain.” 

Branson smiled, leaning against a pillar. He sat Sybbie down so that he could relax his arms. 

“I think that’s the most honest thing you’ve said to me in all the years we’ve known one another.” Branson said; it was clearly a compliment. 

Thomas straightened up. He regarded Branson, handsome and at ease even amid a flustering party. There was something about him in that moment that Thomas could not deny- something about in the way that he spoke honesty with every word… faced the world head on unafraid even in the face of changing times. 

He opened his mouth, longing slipping from his mouth. 

“There’s something I need to tell you.” Thomas said softly. Branson needed to know he’d tried to kill himself; needed to know how miserable Thomas was. Thomas could not say why he needed to tell Branson… only that it was imperative in this moment. That somehow Branson might be able to understand and treat him normally. 

Branson didn’t falter in his smile, tilting his head as if to say ‘go on’. Thomas opened his mouth- 

“Barrow-!” 

Mr. Talbot cut across Thomas before he could confide in Branson. Hustling down the main stairs, Talbot cut across the pair of them with wide eyes and a sweating brow. Thomas’ heart jumped with anxiety. “You’re needed upstairs!” 

“Has something happened to George?” Thomas asked at once. Talbot shook his head rapidly. 

“Should I come too?” Branson asked at once, sensing an imminent crisis.

“No, you stay here and hold to the children.” Talbot begged, Branson raised his hands up in mock surrender at once, taking up the crystal decanter in clear symbol that he would now be the one pouring wine. Together, Thomas and Talbot charged back up the stairs. 

“What’s going on?” Thomas demanded as they hit the gallery floor and took a sharp right. They were heading for Lord and Lady Grantham’s room, along with Lady Mary’s- 

Talbot paused, pushing shaking hands through his slicked hair so that he could eye Thomas with an ‘oh boy’ sort of look. 

“Anna is about to deliver.” Talbot declared, “And Clarkson needs a nurse.” 

“… Oh dear god.” Thomas whimpered, courage fleeing him like a flock of birds to the wind. 

Talbot yanked open Lady Mary’s door; there could be no going back now. 

~*~

What an odd look it had been. 

He’d seen many expressions flit over Thomas Barrow’s face in the past weeks, most of forlorn exhaustion that came from caring for three children day and night. Yet never before had he seen anything quite so ominous as the expression Thomas had worn just then, filling up goblets with his decanter and allowing Sybbie to play at his knees. 

_“There’s something I need to tell you.”_ Thomas had said, gray eyes softening with… well, it was hard to say. 

Longing? Pain? Need? Tom couldn’t be sure.   
A pity Henry had jumped in, though god know’s what was going on upstairs. Whatever it was, he was content that it wasn’t a true emergency. If the children were safe, all was well, and Henry hadn’t made a bee line for Robert so… 

Whatever it was, Tom would find out in time. He wasn’t worried.   
At least, not about that. 

If anyone had told him that he’d end up caring about Thomas Barrow he’d have thought they were joking, but safe to say he certainly cared about him now. The pair of them had grown close, though obviously they weren’t bezzies. No, anyone with a brain knew Thomas’ bezzie was Baxter… and honestly every time Henry took Tom for a ride he was ready to marry the man. 

But they weren’t strangers anymore. Not by a long shot. They were…close. That was the best word to describe it. 

“I thought I saw you over here?” 

Edith’s editor, Ms. Edmunds, had found him pouring the wine and tending to Sybbie. She had an empty glass, and he filled it for her at once with a broad smile. “Are we pouring the wine now?” 

“I am!” Tom joked, “Thomas just ran upstairs- it’s getting close to New Years!” 

“You seem pensive.” Ms. Edmunds noted, taking back her glass and having a hearty sip. The girl certainly knew how to hold her alcohol. 

“I am.” Tom admitted, for Thomas often filled his thoughts when he wasn’t thinking, “I have a lot to think about.” 

“Am I in those thoughts of yours?” Ms. Edmund asked. 

“Sh…Should you be?” Tom wondered. What an odd thing to say. 

“Only, that I’d hoped we were getting along well-“ Ms. Edmunds explained with haste, her cheeks flushing light pink. 

“I’d imagine we are!” Tom assured her at once. Ms. Edmunds certainly was familiar, but maybe that was the new way- 

“Then it’s settled.” She declared with a smirk, “Let’s get a drink and we can talk more personally.” 

… Or maybe not. 

“As… Friends?” Tom clarified. 

“To start-“ Ms. Edmunds said, her tone starting to waver as if she herself was unsure now. 

“Ah-“ oh boy, “I- I feel- ah- I think may have lead you on.” Tom stuttered, cheeks flushing and not all of it from wine. At his knees, Sybbie looked up with a delighted grin. Oh the cheeky little devil liked to see her daddy squirm. “I’m so sorry I never meant to-“ 

“Oh golly-“ Ms. Edmunds didn’t take it personally. She instead swallowed the rest of her wine to cover her embarrassment, “What a mess I’ve made-“ 

“No!” Tom snorted, for this was hardly her fault. “I… Sorry. Eheh…” Tom flushed, throwing his hands up in the air for mock celebration, “Happy New Year!” He declared before dropping a hand to pick up another wine glass. He downed it at once. “God…” 

~*~

 

Once when he’d been in the medical corp during the war, Thomas had had to hold down a man who was having a leg amputated. He’d thrashed and screamed, bucking like mad. He’d wailed and cried for everyone from God to his mother to spare him of the pain. In the end he’d blacked out from the exertion and Thomas had had to take over sawing to give the doctor some relief. The blood that had come gushing forth had been comparable to a tidal wave, and when the man had awoken again his screaming had resumed with such a fever that he’d woken up patients in the next squad and had had a leather belt forced into his mouth to keep him from biting off his tongue.

That whole ordeal, as traumatizing as it had been, was a fucking cake walk compared to delivering a baby. 

Anna lay writhing and screaming in Lady Mary’s bed, her golden hair undone and her body dripping with sweat. It was terrifying to witness, and Thomas held her tightly about the chest as she grabbed at him tight with both her hands. He was the only thing keeping her to earth, delirium overtaking her from the level of pain she lay in as Dr. Clarkson squatted between her open legs and kept her from bleeding out. 

Blood was _everywhere_. On the sheets, on the bed, on Anna, on Dr. Clarkson- even Thomas had blood on him which made no sense because damnit he was at the head of the bed-! 

“I bloody hate you I do!” Anna screamed at the top of her lungs, her voice shrill and high in Thomas’ ears. 

“Good!” Thomas shouted back, thinking by the end of this he was going to need to drink wine straight from the decanter. Anna’s bloodied slip had risen up just an inch two high a few seconds ago, and Thomas was pretty certain he’d seen things no homosexual man ever wanted to see. “Hate me! Hate me and squeeze the hell out of my arm- it’ll get the baby out faster!” 

“Just bear down on the next contraction, Mrs. Bates.” Dr. Clarkson urged, “You’re almost there-“ 

“Oh you little bastard!” Anna howled in agony. It was difficult to say who she was talking to in this moment though odds were it was her unborn child. 

“Thomas, get the scissors ready, I can almost see its head.” Dr. Clarkson instructed, talking in a heated rush. This was where things got complicated; Thomas had to reach as hard as possible to aid both Dr. Clarkson and Anna at the same time. He allowed her to hold onto his right hand while he fetched the scissors with his left, passing one tool after another so that Dr. Clarkson could do his work. By the end of it both of their hands were coated in Anna’s blood. 

Jesus christ was it normal for there to be so much blood? Thomas’ heart started beating faster. 

“Ahh-!” Anna sobbed, slumping- her grip on his arm was weak now, shaking wildly. “God! Why- why-!” but what use was there begging for God in a time like this? If Anna wanted to beg to someone, beg to Dr. Clarkson- he was in the best position to ease her pain.

“Nearly there!” Dr. Clarkson urged, sweat and foreign blood trickling down his brow. “Keep pushing!” 

“God, please-“ Anna was all but hysterical. 

With a cold rag in hand, Thomas cupped Anna’s brow in one hand to keep her cool while allowing her to grab at his arm with the other. She shuddered, at times squeezing, at times going lax. It was like her strength was fleeing and it frightened Thomas. The idea of Anna dying- it horrified him. 

“Fuck god!” Thomas cursed in her ear, praying he could give her some of his own strength in that dire moment, “He won’t help you now! You’re the master of your own fate, Anna Bates! Push!” Thomas wiped her face free of sweat, waving his rag so that she could receive some type of air flow. Her eyes were hooded, glazed, she was hardly conscious anymore. 

“Come on!” Thomas spat, frightened, “Quit whining and push!” 

She took one breath, then another, and without warning let go of his arm to reach up and crack him across the face. The blow stunned him, for Anna had looked to be on death’s door just a second ago. Now her eyes were wide and blazing, gleaming with fury as she panted and heaved. Between her legs, Dr. Clarkson continued to work, brow furrowed as he tried to navigate the baby’s emerging head. 

“Is that the best you’ve got?” Thomas taunted. Incensed, Anna let out another growling shriek through clenched teeth and slapped him hard again. She was breathing wildly now, cheeks flushed bright red as she continued to push- 

“Next time try and hit me like you mean it!” Thomas sneered, leaning in close, “Sissy.” 

Anna screamed, and with one wild smack cracked him hard across the face. The blow busted his lip so that blood suddenly streamed down his chin, but it didn’t matter because even as the sound of the crack dimmed another shriek hit the air. A new shriek, never heard before. 

“You’ve done it!” Dr. Clarkson declared, and Thomas would have been a fool to deny the gasp coming from his mouth. Terror fled to be replaced by the strangest sensation of joy as Dr. Clarkson lifted up a squirming bloody bundle of flesh that shrieked and wailed like it was being gutted by a damn knife- 

Thomas let out a breath, momentarily forgetting his own name. 

The last time he’d seen a newborn baby had been when his mother had given birth to his siblings, and he hadn’t been allowed in the room for days. The experience was completely different now, shocking him to the core, though not in a bad way. He was amazed to find that the baby was beautiful- even though it was bloody and squirming and frankly making noises more close to a barn animal than a human. It was completely innocent. 

It didn’t even have a name. 

Thomas suddenly remembered himself at the lack of Anna’s joy, and looked down to find that she was passed out upon the bed, her face rapidly draining of blood. Dr. Clarkson was tending to the baby, wrapping it in towels and cutting the umbilical chord- Anna however was responding. 

“It’s a boy, Mrs. Bates.” Dr. Clarkson declared, too wrapped up in his word to look to the mother, “A healthy baby boy-“ 

“Anna-“ Thomas snapped, leaning over the bed to shake Anna brusquely by the shoulders, “Anna, say something-“ she wasn’t waking up. Panicked, Thomas returned the favor in kind and smacked her hard upon the cheek. “Anna!” He shouted in her ear. 

She woke with a start, eyes watering fiercely as she looked up to Thomas in fear of the unknown. Over the din of her huffing sobs, her baby wailed. 

“Is it over…?” She asked, voice barely a whisper in her exhaustion. Dr. Clarkson was bathing the baby now, wiping it free of blood so that its flushed pink flesh could finally be revealed. It was quite small, kicking and squirming like a perp trying to get free of a bobby as Dr. Clarkson wrapped him up tightly in a firm white linen. 

“It’s over.” Thomas declared, amazed at his own statement.   
It was over. This fucking pregnancy was finally over. 

Dr. Clarkson was cleaning up the room, tugging at bloodied linens ands wrapping Anna in clean sheets even as she choked and sobbed groggily. Thomas wiped blood and sweat from her face, trying to give her comfort as he blocked the sight of Clarkson disposing of bloodied sheets from her line of sight. It seemed to frighten her, remind her that she’d come incredibly close to death tonight. 

“Oh stop crying.” Thomas murmured softly, feeling quite sorry for her. He knew what it felt like to be half naked and helpless upon a bloodied bed, “This is the happiest day of your dreary little life.” He murmured. 

Anna whimpered, closing her eyes. A tear trickled down her pale cheek and Thomas chased it up with the hand towel at once. Dr. Clarkson tapped him on the shoulder, and Thomas looked around to see that Dr. Clarkson was attempting to hand him the baby. 

“I’m going to inform the father and his lordship.” Dr. Clarkson ordered, all but shoving the bundled newborn into his hands. Thomas took him agog, “Stay with them?” 

Thomas nodded dumbly. What choice did he have. 

“Well done, Anna.” Dr. Clarkson declared, patting her hand delicately. “Very well done.” 

He left, stifled chaos in his wake as a hot silence filled in the air. The baby gurgled, still not satisfied but no longer afraid as he squirmed in his wrappings. His chin wibbled, thick lips pursed tight- his little eyes were still closed, dewy at the edges beneath a soft tuft of brown hair. 

“… Oh my… god-“ Thomas muttered, looking the baby up and down. “You’re… beautiful.” And he’d never meant it more. 

“Let me see?” 

Anna was awake again, begging over his shoulder, “P-please- Please Thomas-“ 

He looked around to find her trying to rise off the bed, shaking from the exertion with her pale arms outstretched to where he stood just beyond reach. Tears were dripping down her cheeks again, an expression of longing filling her up- 

“Oh for god’s sake-“ Thomas protested, urging her back down into bed as he sat upon mattress and hastily pushed the baby into her arms, “Don’t kill yourself-“ 

Anna clutched her son to her heaving breast, weeping openly now. He did not make to stop her, recognizing them for happy tears as she pressed kiss after kiss to the baby’s moist forehead. The baby yawned, a tiny pink mouth stretching in a soft ‘o’ momentarily before falling closed again. 

“He’s so beautiful-“ Anna groaned through a sob. She sniveled, and Thomas fetched his wet hand cloth again to hastily wipe her face. She did not seem to care that he touched her anymore, “He’s so beautiful, Thomas.” 

“He is.” Thomas agreed, emotional though it was hardly his own baby. He used the hand towel to wipe the blood from his own hands, gently stroking the baby’s tuft of brown hair. It was so soft beneath his fingers- it didn’t seem real. “He truly is.” 

Anna sagged, laying her head against the juncture of his arm and chest. She wept softly and he wrapped an arm around her back, holding her as best as he could. Anna clutched at him in that moment, holding to him like he were as dear to her as a brother. She buried her nose in his collar, trying to regain her breath as her son slept in her arms. 

The door opened, and John Bates appeared. 

He was in shock, face bloodless and sweating from nerves. His eyes were wide, blown, pupils swallowing up brown so that his eyes were practically black. 

Thomas sat up, arm slipping from behind Anna’s back so that he could clamber off the bed at once. He slunk backwards, stepping till he hit the decorated wall of Lady Mary’s inner chambers. Bates did not seem to notice him, eyes locked on Anna. She looked up, new tears glistening at the corners of her eyes. 

“John…” She whispered his name. It was the first time Thomas had ever heard her call him as such, “We have a son.” 

Bates surged forward, crumpling upon the corner of the bed as he took Thomas’ spot and pulled his wife into his arms. He cradled her and the baby both, kissing them profusely in a display of affection that left even Thomas mildly embarrassed. Unsure of what else to do, Thomas slowly inched about the room cleaning up from the birth. He put away Dr. Clarkson’s tools and took up every dirtied cloth he could find to pile it atop a bloodied bed sheet. Like Father Christmas, he bundled the whole sack up and tied it so that he could later take it downstairs when the party guests were gone. It wouldn’t do for others to see him carrying around loads of blood like a murder had just taken place in a bedroom. 

As he headed back for the door, he was stopped by the sound of Bates calling his name. 

“You’re bleeding.” Bates said.   
Thomas touched his mouth, skin stinging- he realized he’d forgotten. 

“Oh- “ Thomas mumbled, knowing he couldn’t go back downstairs to the party now without worrying the other guests. He’d have to hide. “…Congratulations.” 

“Thank you, Thomas.” Anna sniffed, swallowing. The love in her voice was overwhelming, though he knew it wasn’t for him, “You were such a help. I’m so sorry I hit you…” She looked to her husband, “What shall we call him?” 

“William.” Bates said after a moment, reaching down and cradling his son’s head, “After William Mason. William John Bates.” 

Typical. 

An odd, ugly jealousy filled up Thomas from his toes to his nose as he surveyed Bates upon the bed with Anna and William in his arms. He suddenly wished, not for the first time, that they could trade places. That Thomas could be the one with a wife and child and Bates could be the one on the fringes of society. What would Thomas give for a moment like this? To look into the eyes of an infant and know he had a legacy? An heir? A son all his own- 

Thomas sighed, bitter, and looked away. He reached out for the door, taking the knob in hand- 

“Thomas…” Bates called out. Thomas paused, looking back again. “About the other day, with Dr. Kinsey-“ 

“Let’s-“ Thomas cut Bates off, heart twanging in his chest, “Let’s not worry about that.” He pursed his lips, bitter, “Tonight is for you. Congratulations, and Happy New Year.” 

“Happy New Year, Thomas.” Anna and Bates said almost simultaneously. Both were looking at him with oddly somber affection. It unsettled him. 

He left the room, passing Lord and Lady Grantham along with Lady Mary on the way up. Dr. Clarkson was just outside, talking in hushed tones with his Lordship who nodded calmly and smiled benignly at Thomas. 

“Get some ice on that lip, Thomas.” Dr. Clarkson added as he passed. 

“Good show, Barrow.” Lord Grantham reached out, and he was amazed when the man shook his hand. 

“He thought fast, antagonizing Anna into action.”Dr. Clarkson mused. “She was giving out until she cracked him in the face. He helped her give birth faster.” 

“Everything at a price,” Lord Grantham joked, tapping to his own unmarked lip in solidarity. 

“M’lord. Doctor.” Thomas nodded to them both, heading for the stairwell to the main hall until he stopped himself and realized he couldn’t descend with blood on his shirt and his lip busted. He hung back by the railing, watching the party below only to catch Branson’s eyes from the wine table. 

Branson smiled, and ascended the stairs. 

“So?” Branson asked as he rounded the top. Sybbie was no where to be found- he must have put her to bed. Thomas wondered how long the birth had taken, and checked his pocket watch from Lord Grantham to see that it was about fifteen minutes to midnight. “Is it all over?” 

“Oh yes…” Thomas said; it seemed Branson had learned of Thomas’ quest. “Yes, he’s healthy and in his mother’s arms, and couldn’t be more perfect.” Branson grinned, delighted, “William John Bates.” 

“Meanwhile you have a busted lip and bruised cheek.” Branson chuckled, unable to stop laughing as he reached up and touched Thomas’ lip. Branson’s thumb was warm upon his face, “What did she do to you? Punch you?” 

“I might have asked for it.” Thomas joked. Branson’s fingers stemmed up to Thomas’ bruised cheek only to paused and stop. He suddenly seemed to realize that he was touching Thomas’ face in an incredibly intimate way and immediately dropped his hand to give Thomas some breathing space. 

Thomas had not been touched by a man in a very long time. It did not help that Branson was handsome to boot. 

“The wine’s gotten to me.” Branson muttered in soft apology. 

“I could stand with another glass.” Thomas admitted, “But I can’t downstairs looking like this-“ 

“No, no,” Branson agreed, waving a hand, “I’ll fill it for you.” 

He went downstairs; Thomas touched his lips in Branson’s absence, feeling where his fingers had only just been. 

Why was his heart pounding? 

Branson ascended the stairs again, two glasses of wine in hand, and offered one to Thomas who accepted it at once. For some reason the party was thinned out, till only close family remained- and where was Lady Edith? 

“Where’s Lady Edith?” Thomas wondered, looking over the balcony. 

“She’s gone.” Branson admitted, “Left while you were helping Anna. She wanted me to thank you for all your help with Marigold.” 

“It was hardly a chore.” Thomas murmured. The pair of them walked at a slow calm gait towards the green baize door at the corner of the hall by the bachelor corridor. Thomas opened it, leaning in the sill as it took a slow sip of wine and checked his pocket watch. Ten minutes. 

“I’m going to go downstairs.” Thomas murmured, “To be with the others.” 

It only seemed right. He could hardly stay upstairs. 

“I’ll join you.” Branson said, relaxing on the other side of the sill. They were almost touching now. 

“No, you stay here.” Thomas urged him, “Be with them. I’ll come back up and check on the children in a moment.” 

“You don’t mind?” Branson asked. Thomas just smiled, blissful and buzzed. 

“Not at all.” He murmured softly. Branson grinned, tilting his head from side to side. 

“Earlier you said there was something you wanted to tell me.” Branson said. Thomas shook his head though, knowing that now was not the time for such conversations. Before, speaking about his suicide had seemed like a good confession. Now, it just felt selfish. Tonight was for William Bates and Lady Edith… no one else. 

“Now’s not the time.” Thomas said. 

“Why not?” 

“Because everyone is smiling.” Thomas whispered. Branson frowned, saddened by his words. 

“Happy New Year, Mr. Branson.” Thomas said, and he’d never wished it more. 

“Will you at least call me Tom?” Branson beseeched. The idea made Thomas stomach clench in an odd fit of nerves that he couldn’t understand. It was probably just the wine. 

“…Happy New Year Tom.” Thomas whispered. 

“Happy New Year.” Tom said, clinking his glass with Thomas’ own, “Thomas.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Review if it pleased you... or if it didn't!


	9. Why the Sea is Salty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A photograph is worth a thousand words. One of them is 'gunsel'.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A slight warning for **minor sexual content** in this chapter because Tom can't keep it in his pants.

He stood before Carson’s floor length mirror, tailor at his knees and Carson at his back. 

“You are the line in the sand.” Carson murmured, watching over every detail as the tailor ensured Thomas’ new livery fit him perfectly. 

“You are the final barrier between the family and disaster.” Carson said. As he came around, he met Thomas’ eyes and did not look away. It was a powerful moment between the two of them: a butler crafted for eternal fame, and a butler who had no other choice to avoid starvation. “You are the backbone of the integrity of this house.” Carson said. 

Well. The house was fucked, then.   
Light streamed in through Carson’s office windows. It had been three days since New Years. Three days since William’s birth. Three days since Thomas’ shocking career turn.

“From now on, your example must be the example to follow.” Carson said, “You must be constantly vigilant to ascertain and attend to the needs of the family. You are now officially in charge of hiring, disciplining, and if necessary… dismissing the staff.” 

At Thomas’ knees, the tailor tugged gently upon his trousers to ensure they fitted well. Thinly striped, the trousers of a butler, Thomas and Carson now looked like twins for their identical livery. 

“You must now oversee the work of the Footmen, and ensure that they are trained to be valets if necessary. You must rise early, as you have always done to maintain proper order.” Carson reached forward and touched Thomas’ bowtie, ensuring that its starched fabric was straight, “You must be an image of cleanliness, in particular ensure that your face is always clean shaven-“ He paused, “But you have always been a clean man, and I have no complaint in that.” 

Carson straightened Thomas’ jacket now. The tailor rose, measurements taken, and left the room momentarily to fetch more pins. In their newfound privacy, Carson made his true displeasure clear. 

“No, Thomas- my concern is this: your attitude.” Carson locked his eyes upon Thomas’ eyes again. There could be no hiding, no looking away. “You must never discuss the business of the family with strangers. Ever again. You must never speak ill of the family again. You must never give pert answers again. No more muttering when you walk out of the room, no more slamming doors or heavy stomping.” Carson raised a finger, in ominous warning, “I won’t hear of it. Not when you are now the butler.” 

He clasped his hands behind his back, “You must cultivate modesty. You must listen and learn. Frugality, sobriety, and a good temper are items you must possess in order to maintain the house hold…” 

Thomas thought it was over. He was wrong. 

Carson came back around so that he and Thomas now stared at one another in the mirror instead of eye to eye. Carson reached up and, without warning, put his hands upon Thomas’ shoulders to squeeze tightly. He could suddenly feel the strength in Carson’s hands. IT did not frighten him but it didn’t make him happy; not one bit. 

“Thomas Barrow… Honesty.” Carson said the word with clear authority. “What does it mean?” 

“To tell the truth.” Thomas replied. 

“And do you find it a virtue to keep?” 

Well wasn’t that the question of the hour. The fact of the matter was that while Thomas knew exactly what honesty was and why it was important, it was also incredibly dangerous. Honesty was the lead way to vulnerability… and vulnerability to men like Thomas meant death. 

And even that was on a good day. 

“I find it difficult to do sometimes.” Thomas admitted, catching Carson’s eyes in the mirror, “When I’m angry or tired… or embarrassed. And that’s the truth of it.” 

Carson sized up Thomas’ words, and squeezed his shoulder’s again… but there was much less force behind his fingers this time. 

“Did you father speak to you of honesty?” 

That was fair; Thomas respected it. The fact of the matter was Thomas did not like thinking about his father. 

“No sir.” Thomas admitted, “My father never spoke to me. He yelled.” Carson did not seem surprised. Indeed, he seemed sad, “Children learn to lie when they are punished for telling the truth.” 

Carson gently brushed dust off Thomas’ shoulders, though there was hardly any there. The tailor re entered the room, dropped to his knees, and resumed pinning Thomas’ trouser hem. 

“You must be your own father, Thomas Barrow.” Carson declared, looking him in the eye through the mirror. “And never lie again.” 

 

 

 

Anna was in a bad way. 

He wouldn’t have known that night, he was Bates and he wasn’t his Lordship, but when Anna gave birth her “stitch broke” whatever that meant, and the neck of her womb had begun to bleed from within. It had left her weak, tired, and so she was ordered to bed rest in a guest room off the gallery wing. This made things slightly easier for Bates; he didn’t have to walk home at night and could instead just go upstairs and couple up with Anna. Likewise, William did not travel from the nursery. Instead, William took over Marigold’s crib and… 

Screamed his little lungs out.   
Sometimes. 

Thomas was still nanny until they could find a new one (thus making Carson still the Butler), so William was his responsibility. Thomas had never taken care of an infant before. He’d taken to his brother and sisters, naturally but… his mother had done most of the handling. Now it was Thomas’ turn, and frankly? He was losing his mind. 

Slowly. Lovingly. He wouldn’t have done it for anyone else but William. 

The fact of the matter was that William didn’t have a set sleeping schedule yet and couldn’t keep from screaming when he woke. It seemed the dark petrified him, and so to sooth him Thomas moved William’s new crib into his own room (so that Sybbie and George might get some decent rest) and kept on a small shaded lamp. Often, William would not be soothed until he was upon Thomas’ chest, rising and falling with each breath Thomas took and listening to the beat of his heart. It was an incredibly tender moment, one that Thomas shared and revealed to no one for the sake of prolonging it. Bates and Anna were the rightful owners of such affections; he felt like a thief in the night… but Anna needed to recover and Bates wanted to tend to her. It took a village to raise a child. Why couldn’t the village include him? 

During the night, Thomas fed William with a bottle; during the day however Thomas was happy to let Anna cradle and nurse him so that he could tend to the other children. So it was that early one morning about a week and a half after her hellish New Years, Thomas brought in William for his morning feeding and opened the door to find Anna already cared to by a maid. She had a tray over her lap, a light housecoat wrapped about her with her golden hair braided over her shoulder. She looked like she’d been dozing in the calm sunlight bathing in through the curtained windows, eyes lightly closed and face relaxed. As she saw William, she beamed, sitting up better in bed and moving her tray of finished breakfast aside. 

“I hope I didn’t wake you.” Thomas murmured, closing the door with his free hand. 

“No.” Anna assured him, and reached out both hands to take William from his arms. Thomas happily handed him over, and after a bit of fuss and gurgling William was safely in his mothers arms. “Hello my darling-“ She kissed him softly upon the brow. He let out the softest gurgle, appeased. “Has he been alright?” Anna asked, “Has he been sleeping?” 

Thomas picked up her emptied breakfast tray and placed it upon the floor, taking its station upon the bed so that he and Anna could relax side by side. It was nice to get off his feet for a moment, and Anna certainly didn’t mind. He seemed to amuse her; she was always smirking or laughing when he was near. 

“Oh yes.” Thomas said, for if William wasn’t screaming he was sleeping. There was never a moment between the two (save for eating), “Quite a lot. He was born tired.” 

Anna laughed softly, stroking Williams cheek. “Does he cry a lot?” 

“Of course.” Thomas shrugged, “He’s a week old.” Anna laughed again, “I don’t mind though, he’s just trying to talk. I found a new trick though.” 

“You did?” Anna asked, curious. 

“Watch this.” Thomas declared. 

He’d discovered this trick accidentally, stroking Williams cheek with the knuckle of his finger only to be surprised when William turned his head and tried to suck at the nub. He’d done it several times, wondering if it was just a once off, but it turned out that if William felt something was touching his cheek he assumed straight away it was a nipple and tried to suck. He was a man with his stomach on his mind. Thomas could respect that. 

He reached out, stroking Williams’ cheek, and at once he turned with tiny lips searching desperately for his finger. He tried to suck, Thomas pulling back before he could start, “Ah! Not my finger. Silly boy.” Thomas tapped William’s petite noise. He made a gurgle of irritation at being jipped for food. 

“How sweet.” Anna pushed William’s bangs back and forth, “How are you liking your new position, Mr. Butler?” 

“Not yet.” Thomas warned her. Anna shrugged. 

“But soon.” 

“…Maybe.” Thomas didn’t know what to think, didn’t want to think. Anna frowned, “I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t be.” She consoled him, continuing to stroke William’s bangs. Though they’d been dark at birth they’d turned a bright blonde, practically white, “It’s a lot to take on, but we’re all behind you.” 

“I appreciate that.” Thomas said. 

Between them, William made an angry grunting sound. 

 

 

 

Thomas’ conversations with Dr. Kinsey had become oddly spaced. Sometimes he didn’t call the man at all, sometimes he called him twice a day. With the newfound realization that he was about to be butler, Thomas felt anxiety was always around the corner. He’d never wanted to take this direction with his career, but then again he’d never known what direction he’d wanted to take period. 

_“How interesting,”_ Dr. Kinsey mused at Carson’s demands, _“Be your own father- what do you think that means?”_

“Well, exactly what he says.” Thomas said, for he’d never known Carson to be anything but literal. 

_“Well.”_ Dr. Kinsey coughed a bit before continuing on, _“Pretend you’re your own father. How do you feel about your behavior?”_

That was difficult. 

He tried to imagine if he was George, and then was seeing his actions while watching them through George. He was nervous, he was unsure of his future and if he could succeed. He was alienating himself from the staff, from the world around him, and was often lonesome for things he could never attain. 

“Worried.” Thomas admitted. 

_“I fear parents often worry too much,”_ Dr. Kinsey said, and Thomas had to agree. Lady Edith was a prime example of that, _“One cannot control the circumstances of time-“_

“But can’t I?” Thomas wondered, “If I’m worried about… me?” He groaned, sensing a headache coming on, “This is confusing, everything’s confusing-“ 

_“Why’s that?”_

Oh goody now they were really going to have an interesting conversation. 

How was Thomas supposed to explain to a heterosexual man what it meant to be stroked on the cheek by another man and like it? He could still feel the smooth touch of the backs of Tom’s fingers, the warmth they inspired in his cool skin. How his thumb had come dangerously close to Thomas’ busted lip. How he’d smiled, how he’d yearned for more- 

Of course, Tom was heterosexual too, so it was wrong of him to have these thoughts about Tom. Hadn’t he done enough for pining for men who would never love him back? Not that he was really pining for Tom- he certainly wasn’t in love with him- that was to say, he wasn’t utterly in love with him. He was very charming and adorable and his Irish accent put small butterflies in Thomas’ stomach- 

Jesus christ he needed help. 

“Tom Branson touched my face.” Thomas admitted, flushing at the memory. He was going to look fevered when he walked out of the office. 

_“Really.”_ Dr. Kinsey didn’t seem to know what else to say. Thomas couldn’t blame him. 

“It was New Years Eve…” Thomas admitted, “He uh- he didn’t much seem to care- I mean to say he was relaxed. I was relaxed. We were relaxed.” 

_You need help_ , a marble said irritably in his head, _You so repressed every man you see is a walking piece of meat_. 

_“And yet you didn’t like it when I touched you.”_ Dr. Kinsey reminded him. _“Why is that?”_

Now Thomas was thinking about Dr. Kinsey stroking his face, about it being a sexual indication, and suddenly he was flushing even hotter so that he yanked at his tie to loosen it around his neck. His depraved brain jumped to the idea of Dr. Kinsey and Tom having a threesome with him- both their hands skirting his skin as they took him rough and hard- 

_Sodomy!_ the marbles cheered, overjoyed, _Sodomy! Gunsel! Sodomy! Gunsel!_

“Oh my god-“Thomas groaned aloud into the phone. 

_“Thomas?”_

“I mean-“ Thomas coughed, straightening back up, “I don’t uh… know…why. I need to go feed the dog I have to hang up now-“ He said in a rush. His depraved brain was already making him think of Dr. Kinsey naked, of how his cock might taste in Thomas’ mouth. 

_Wee!_ the marbles continued to jeer. 

_“Thomas tell me what’s wrong.”_

“I just…” Thomas coughed, tugging at his neck some more, “I just uh… have thoughts-“ 

_“Tell me?”_

“I can’t.” 

_“Why not?”_

“It’s improper.” 

_“Don’t be afraid. Tell me; I’m writing a research study on our findings together. It could benefit men like you in the future.”_

Thomas sighed, desperately trying to calm his hammering heart. 

“Just….” Thomas coughed, dropping his voice till he was almost whispering into the phone, “Just… uh… I started thinking about. You and Tom Branson… and me.” 

_“What were you thinking about in regards to the three of us.”_

“Threesome.” Thomas mumbled softly. 

_“What?”_

“You know what I have to go.” Thomas snapped loudly, his courage fleeing him in a rush. 

_“Thomas, wait-!”_

“Goodbye!” Thomas hung up the phone, practically slamming it upon his cradle. His heart was hammering in his chest and he had to take several deep calming breathes. Raking a hand through his hair, Thomas looked up at the ceiling and pinched his eyes shut as he relaxed into Carson’s swivel chair. 

Lord he really was a gunsel. 

~*~

After celebrating New Years, Tom had woken up with a splitting headache and a distinct impression that he’d stroked Thomas Barrow’s cheek. He’d spent the whole day wandering around in a stupor, swallowing a Beechams to ease his temple and hiding in the darkened small library as outside Thomas had waged war on an infant barely 48 hours old and two children who desperately wanted to play. To ease his load, Tom had taken over Sybbie and allowed her to play in the library with him; she’d sat in her emerald beaded dress, drawing pictures by the fire from magazines she’d borrowed of fancy frocks. George and Henry had gone out, taking Mary with them so that they could enjoy a day as a small unit. 

Two weeks had nearly passed, and Thomas had still not mentioned Tom’s slip up. Maybe he didn’t remember or maybe he was embarrassed too. Tom still couldn’t reckon why he’d felt it so necessary to touch Thomas- only that… it had felt good. Right. Lovely. 

Once again, Henry had taken Mary and George out for the day followed by Robert and Cora. All of them had gone to York eager to see Henry’s new car shop. This left Tom to have the run of the house, and he enjoyed it as he took Tiaa for a walk with Sybbie. When they returned it was after noon, and Sybbie ran back to the small library to get warm while Tom took off his hat and coat to hang it in the entrance hall. The phone rang from its pedestal in the main hall, and Andy (who’d been by the door) made a bee line to answer it. Tom was closer, and waved him off so that he could pick up the phone instead. 

“Downton Abbey-“ Tom said, yanking a bit at his tie. He was slightly hot from his walk despite it being freezing outside with fresh snow on the ground. 

_“Yes, this is Lady Margret Pelham, may I speak with his lordship-“_

“Lady Pelham!” Tom was quite surprised, but suddenly his heart jumped in anxiety, “This is Tom Branson- you’re not calling about Marigold are you?” 

_“Mr. Branson, how good to hear from you,”_ Lady Pelham sounded quite calm, _“No, no, not at all. Marigold is settling in quite well.”_

“Oh thank goodness.” Tom took a breath of relief, “Mr. Barrow will be pleased.” 

_“Well, that’s just it.”_ Lady Pelham’s tone was shifting, turning darker. Tom glanced up, noticing Andy beating snow from his boots so that he could close the front door. _“It’s about… Barrow.”_

The way she said his name made Tom nervous. Like Thomas was a bug- a dangerous bug that ought to be squashed. Tom licked his lips, listening intently. 

_“I have some most unsettling information I’d like to convey to his lordship at once.”_

“Well,” Tom looked over his shoulder again, keeping his tone calm as possible even as his mind kicked into overdrive in an attempt to keep Thomas out of trouble. “his lordship isn’t in at the moment, but I’d be more than happy to help. He’ll be fine with me handling the situation. I know Barrow better.” 

_“I’d like to come for tea if possible. There is something I need to show you.”_ Lady Pelham explained. 

“We’d be glad to have you.” Tom said, unsure if it was a lie or not at this point. 

_“I’ll be there tomorrow around two.”_ Lady Pelham said. 

“I look forward to seeing you,” Once again, was it a lie? “Travel safely.” As he hung up the phone, Tom thought of the pressing time issue and Robert’s imminent return. If he could just isolate Lady Pelham- perhaps in the small library- and keep everyone else away… 

But what on earth was he doing? If Thomas was in trouble, if he’d done something wrong, then he needed to face the consequences. That was only right. 

But there was something in the way Lady Pelham had said his name that made Tom feel like this wasn't a skin-deep issue. Like whatever Thomas had done wrong, it hadn’t been on purpose or even anything he could have changed. 

Tom made his way back to the small library, Tiaa trotting at his heels. He’d stay there for the rest of the afternoon, plotting for tomorrow’s sudden tea. 

~*~

Downstairs, Thomas was having just as much fun interviewing possible Nanny’s. 

He’d have several call in’s after placing adds, and a few had seemed prospective. Some had vitality, some had experience, some were just well connected- either way he was happy to sit down and listen to what they had to say as he tried his hand for the first time at hiring a staff member while 

The first Nanny to come in was shockingly ancient. She hadn’t sounded old over the phone but when she came in it was clear she was the Dowager’s age as she took a chair across from Thomas and smiled. Her face stretched around her thin lips like a leathery prune. 

“Oh I love children-“ The elderly woman assured him at once, “I absolutely love them. I have eighteen grandchildren and twenty-three great grandchildren!” 

So that would be a ‘no’. 

“We’ll be in touch.” Thomas assured her with a smile while simultaneously putting her resumé in the bin behind the barrier of his desk. 

The second prospective nanny was just as bad, but on the complete opposite end. She was young, with clear strength but lacking in experience and didn’t seem to even know how to sit in a chair properly as she spread her knees wide and chewed on her pouty lips. She couldn’t have been older than fifteen. 

“Well I figure it can’t be too hard looking after a baby,” The young woman offered when Thomas asked her about potential stress, “I mean what do they really need?” 

Thomas hadn’t gotten a decent night’s sleep in over a week and at once dismissed the young woman to chuck out her resumé as well. No no, there would be none of that. 

The next prospective candidate was a friend of Denker’s. She’d been on the phone with Carson all morning begging for him to give her mate a chance, and Carson had finally relented. Thomas was not happy about it as the nanny entered, and the smell of sherry could have burned his nose hairs as she took a seat across from him and gave him a broad smile. 

“I prefer a hands off approach.” She declared. Thomas had a feeling the only ‘hands on’ approach she wanted was when her hands were on a bottle of gin and dismissed her without care. 

And what would you know it, the nanny that Carson had approved of to come in was about as terrifying at Attila the Hun with a glare to rival Thomas’ and a thin lipped scowl. 

“The more a child is spanked, the better example they’ll turn out to be.” The nanny declared. Thomas gaped, open mouthed, and it made her snap, “I believe you’d have turned out better if you’d been spanked more.” 

Right, that would be a ‘no’, then. 

 

Thomas sat groaning at Mr. Carson’s desk, stroking his throbbing brow and waiting for a Beecham’s from Mrs. Hughes. How hard was it to find a decent Nanny? The first one had been perfect, if only she’d been able to walk up stairs without crumbling like a sand castle. Thomas put his head on the desk just as Mrs. Hughes came in with a cup of tea and a Beecham’s. She smiled, shutting the door and offering both. He did not raise his head up, closing his eyes as she murmured. 

“There’s a final interview for the day.” 

“If it’s another nanny tell her to chuck it.” Thomas grumbled softly, still refusing to lift his head from the desk. 

In a move that took Thomas by slight surprise, Mrs. Hughes reached out and gently stroked her fingers through his hair. He looked up to find her smiling down at him, still offering the Beecham’s and he accepted it at once. He swallowed the foul drink, chasing it with tea that was prepared exactly as he liked. God bless that woman- 

“I think you’ll want to make an exception for this one.” Mrs. Hughes said. 

So that was interesting. 

Thomas prepared himself for the final round, cracking his neck and rubbing his temple for a moment as the final interview of the day waltzed into the room. She was slightly petite and around Baxter’s age with dark hair wrapped up in a soft bun at the back of her head and a deep beige dress hidden beneath a brown coat. She shook Thomas’ hand, and he noted her grip was firm but not unbending. Sitting down, she handed Thomas her resume and he took it to see she had quite a lot of experience as a nanny in London. Her name was Sarah Armstrong, and she was forty four years old. 

“Ms. Armstrong.” Thomas said, glancing back up at her, “You have glowing references, and your resume seems well put together. Tell me more about your history.” 

“I worked in London for fifteen years as a governess to Lord and Lady Donely’s four children.” Ms. Armstrong said. Thomas rubbed his fingertips together, combing his memory for recognition of the gentry, “I was then hired on by Lady Beckonsfield, Lord Donely’s sister who likewise wanted me to governess over her three girls. I have a background in child rearing and have studied extensively on childcare. I have looked after newly born infants and teenagers. I have had a successful rate, all the same.” 

Thomas glanced up at ‘newly born infant’, ideas sparking in his head. That was potential sure enough. 

“What would you say is your approach to children?” Thomas asked. 

Ms. Armstrong crossed her arms over her chest, drumming her fingers upon her arm. It wasn’t a threatening move, it was just stern. 

“Children will one day be grown.” Ms. Armstrong said, “And must therefor be treated as an adult in order to come to terms with the full hardships of reality- avoiding the complications and fears of the growing years. If you introduce a child to honesty, integrity, patience, and hard work, you will breed an adult of exceptional standards.” 

Thomas tapped his pen upon Mr. Carson’s desk, thinking rapidly. Ms. Armstrong was clearly a woman of stiff standards but she wasn’t unreachable. She was a nanny; she knew what she was about. 

But Thomas now thought of his own dealings with nannies… Nanny West in particular who had beaten Sybbie for her heritage. 

No. He would have none of that. 

“What is your take on the difference in classes in regards to children.” Ms. Armstrong raised an eyebrow, slightly confused, “I mean to say, children of the gentry and children of the workers.” 

Ms. Armstrong tilted her head with a small smile, “Children are children, Mr. Barrow.” she said, “They cry and cling all the same, no matter if their blood is blue or their fingers are sooty.” 

It wasn’t her words, but her body language that got to Thomas. She wasn’t stiff, she wasn’t irritable. She was soothing and calm. She might not have the best bedside manner but she was a nanny and she knew how to care for the helpless. 

“We will be in touch.” Thomas said.   
He did not throw her resumé in the bin. 

 

~*~

The very next day, practically on the dot as the clock struck two, Lady Pelham arrived. 

Tom had been preparing for this all day, and by the time the hour was one, he’d gone over each step like a rehearsed scene. Robert was taking Henry and Mary around the estate, eager to show Henry the territory he would one day control. Cora was at the Dowager’s taking tea. It left Tom, once again, alone in the house as Lady Pelham’s motorcar pulled up in the drive and she got out. She wore a frock and coat of peach, her cloche decked in long quilled feathers as she took Tom’s hand in gentry greeting and stepped into the house. Andy took her coat and cloche, hanging both up as Tom lead the way into the small library. Andy then offered to serve them tea, but even as he made to pour them both a cup Tom stopped him with a friendly hand. 

“I’ll take it here.” Tom assured him, stepping up as Lady Pelham relaxed on the small couch and laid her handbag at her side. 

“Did you travel well?” Tom asked as poured them both a cup of tea. 

“I did, and I’ve come rather hot foot so you’ll have to forgive me if I’m sharp.” Lady Pelham did not sound to be in a good mood though she offered him a bitter smile. “Milk, no sugar-“ she added to Tom, and he at once obeyed her command pouring cream into her cup, “I suppose you want to know why I’m here.” 

“-Well,” Tom added honey to his own cup, “I’m happy to see you either way, but I confess I am worried. I know Barrow well, and you sounded angry over the phone.” 

“I am angry.” Lady Pelham snapped, eyes blazing. Tom watched her unsure, “I am very very angry.” 

Tom returned slowly to the couch opposite Lady Pelham and offered her her tea, watching as she pulled a stiff yellowed envelope from her handbag. It was adorned with a heart, clearly drawn by an ink pen, and Lady Pelham regarded it with disgust as she fanned it back and forth in the air. 

“I suppose you know about my late nephew, Peter-“ Lady Pelham asked. 

“Only that he passed from malaria.” Tom admitted. 

“It wasn’t Malaria.” Lady Pelham corrected him, her voice bitter, “Peter was depraved, an Oscar Wilde sort. he slit his wrists because he knew he’d displeased God and his late father.” 

Tom noticed Andy grow stiff, his eyes widening. Careful with every word he spoke, Tom took a small sip of his scalding tea and set it down to cool. 

“I’m sorry to hear that.” Tom said, and he meant it. What a tragic situation- 

“Well I’m not.” Lady Pelham warned. 

By the table, Andy bristled again. He was white in the face at this point, horrified at Lady Pelham’s lack of empathy for the miserable. She set down her tea cup, glaring dully at Tom, “He got what he deserved. I never cared for him.” 

Tom clenched and unclenched his fingers, unsure of what to say. Maybe the best reaction was silence. At the tea table, Andy stood absolutely silent, like a statue. The only sound in the room was a clock ticking. 

“The other day at the wedding, I noticed Barrow holding little Marigold and he looked rather familiar though I couldn’t place where. But I have a keen memory-“ She tapped her temple with a manicured nail, “And I recalled when Peter died we excavated his room to clean it out and found… these…” Lady Pelham waved the envelop through the air again. She opened it, and pulled out several starched photographs. Selecting one in particular, she put the others aside as she said, “Photographs of men, if you can call them that-“ she added scathingly, “In disgusting positions, doing devilish things.” She passed the photograph, face down, over to Tom who slowly reached out to take it. Heart pounding in his chest, Tom brought the photograph back and flipped it over to finally see what image was captured. 

It was of Thomas. Naked. 

He was young in the picture, probably no more than twenty, and upon a soft bed in a set up room. He held a top sheet to his chest, covering his front even as he gazed frightened at the photographer. He sat upon his legs, the balls of his feet perched against the soft swell of his arse. He was gorgeous, the naked skin of his back gleaming in the picture from clear candlelight which must have been out of frame. He looked demure, sweet, innocent, chewing softly upon his bottom lip as his wide eyes gazed longingly to whoever dared to look at his shot. 

Toms’ heart skipped a beat in his chest. He let out a small breath, laying the photograph down upon his leg so that Andy couldn’t see it accidentally. 

_Fuck me_ , Tom thought. 

“Forgive me if I’ve scandalized you.” Lady Pelham said. She’d scandalized him sure enough, “but I’ve learned it’s best to face these depravities head on.” 

“I see.” Tom was rather speechless at the moment. 

“I want him out of the house.” Lady Pelham demanded, “Without a reference. Away from children. Someone like that does not need to be caring for infants, for anyone- if he wants to displease God let him do so as a catamite in London. That would be just deserts for a man of such filth-“ 

“I will bring this to the attention of his lordship.” Tom cut her off, unwilling to hear another cruel word, “And I’ll be keeping the photograph as proof if you don’t mind.” 

“I don’t mind at all.” Lady Pelham put her photographs back in her handbag, snapping it closed to take up her teacup again. “Just get him out.” She paused, eyes narrowed as she looked over her shoulder at the door, “Is he here?” 

“No.” Tom lied at once, “He’s out for the day. I’ll speak with him when he gets back.” 

“Good.” Lady Pelham said, pleased. Then, quick as a flee, she changed the subject and her nature switched until she was as soft and loving as any grandmother could be, “Marigold is doing so well-“ 

“Is she?” Tom asked weakly, a thin smile upon his face as he rose up to approach Andy and the tea table. He busied his hands, pretending to put a bit of lemon in his tea as he leaned in and muttered softly, “Tell Thomas to stay away from the library until she leaves. Don’t let him be seen.” 

“Very good Mr. Branson.” Andy whispered back, his expression grave. He turned and left at once, heading for the door, and slipped out quietly as Tom retook his seat on the couch. 

Across from him, Lady Pelham prattled on, as chipper as you please. In Tom’s jacket pocket, the picture burned at his skin. 

~*~

It was almost time to William’s afternoon feeding, and Thomas sat gathering his supplies while Anna slept down the hall. Sybbie sat upon her bed, brushing her doll’s hair and humming to herself as Thomas swaddled William tight and picked up a feeding bottle. Just as he sat down in his rocking chair and made to begin, however, a soft knock upon the nursery door gave him pause as Andy entered looking grave and pale. 

“Andy-!” Thomas was stopped as Andy spoke over him in a rush. 

“Mr. Barrow, there’s a woman in the library who’s ill with you. Mr. Branson wants you to stay out of sight until she’s gone, she’s vicious-!” 

“Who is it?” Thomas demanded, for he’d never seen Andy looking so afraid. 

“Lady Pelham.” Andy admitted. 

Thomas thought of Edith’s wedding. Of how Lady Pelham had all but snatched Marigold from his arms and slammed the door of the motorcar upon his face. 

He had a feeling he knew what she had taken ill over him for and rose up at once, pulling William to his chest. 

“Thank you.” Thomas nodded his head, dismissing Andy at once. He all but fled from the room. Thomas turned to Sybbie who was still brushing her doll’s hair. “My darling, I’m going to go downstairs. Shall we go together?” 

“Yes!” Sybbie agreed, hopping off her bed at once and taking her doll with her as Thomas picked up the feeding bottle and left the nursery. He headed for the green baize door, one ear cocked for any sign of an irate female voice. He felt like a rat fleeing in the night, like a roach hiding in a filthy bin, and grimaced as he held the door open for Sybbie and let her slip inside. The pair of them headed down the tight circular staircase, William beginning to grunt and whimper at lack of food as they finally reached the bottom. He could hear voices from the servants hall but didn’t make it that far as Mrs. Patmore and Mrs. Hughes spotted him from the hallway next to the kitchen and came to greet him at the foot of the stairs. 

“Ah, Look who it is!” Mrs. Hughes beamed, gazing adoringly at William who blinked blearily in Thomas’ arms, “The little cherub.” 

“I bet I know what he wants.” Mrs. PAtmore chuckled with pride, for it had been she to make the concoction that William drank when Anna slept. 

“I thought I might feed him downstairs today.” Thomas made up a story on the spot, “Let everyone really get a chance to hold him.” 

“Oh that’s very kind of you!” Mrs. Hughes shepherded him into the servant’s hall. Daisy was serving Baxter and Moseley tea, both of whom looked around intrigued as Thomas entered with William and Sybbie, “Here let’s get you a chair.” 

As soon as Daisy realized that she had a shot at feeding a baby, she wanted in. Thomas didn’t get much time to himself as Mrs. Hughes set up the rocking chair by the fire with an extra pillow for his arm- Daisy was at once by his side, as keen as ever with gleaming eyes as she itched to take William from his hands. 

“Can I feed him?” Daisy begged. 

“Course you can.” Thomas said, and at once Daisy sat down in the chair looking damn delighted. “Get comfortable, put that pillow beneath your arm-“ Daisy did so, and as William was handed over at a snail’s pace he began to get fussy making high pitched noises. Daisy cradled him against her breast, smiling sweetly down at him as Thomas handed her the bottle and let her do the rest. She was now getting tips from Mrs. Hughes and Mrs. Patmore both who watched over her as Sybbie hopped up on the opposite rocking chair and hummed to her doll. She, unlike George, was content not to be the center of attention. 

“Oh hush now.” Thomas murmured, stroking William’s blond bangs as he fretted over the bottle. 

“Here, take your time, Daisy.” Mrs. Patmore advised, adjusting Daisy’s grip upon the bottle so that William could better suckle, “He’ll do most of the work.” And sure enough William took to it at once, sucking feverishly like his belly button was touching his backbone. 

“Cor, he’s a fast eater!” Daisy said with a nervous laugh. Baxter and Moseley had both turned their chairs around and were watching with amused smiles. Thomas squatted down by Daisy’s arm, watching over her as she fed William. 

“He’s hungry.” Mrs. Hughes chuckled. 

“Do they have to eat all the time?” Daisy asked Thomas. 

“At first it feels like it.” Thomas admitted, “But then they slow out. His stomach is too small to hold much- so he gets hungry often.” 

“My sister’s girls ate around the clock.” Mrs. Patmore agreed from behind Daisy’s rocking chair, “Lord one of them was as big as a basket by the end of it.. but then she stopped eating all together and leveled out.” 

William’s hands had come undone from his wrappings and he grabbed at the world around him. First he tried for Daisy’s gray frock, then for the bottle that fed him, and finally he latched onto Thomas so that he squeezed tight upon Thomas’ offered fingers. The others made cooing noises of loving delight at the image. 

“Aww, he likes you.” Daisy giggled in glee. 

“He just likes me because he knows I’ve got a soft spot for him.” Thomas chuckled, stroking Williams’ soft bangs. William closed his eyes, content to suckle and feast. 

“And who can blame you?” Came a soft voice from the doorway. All looked up to see Mr. Bates leaning against the sill, gazing at his son with an expression that came close to adoration without dropping that hard guise Bates always wore. 

“Mr. Bates!” Mrs. Hughes said, as if surprised to see him downstairs. He must have been on an errand and not expected back. 

“Why is William down here?” Bates asked, catching Thomas’ eye, “Isn’t it too drafty?” 

“He’s by the fire.” Daisy protested. 

“Still.” Bates muttered, coming around the back of Sybbie’s chair to watch Daisy feed his son. 

“I thought the others would like to see him.” Thomas explained. As if in agreement, William squeezed his hand tight, continuing to suck at the rubber nipple

“Is he fussy?” Daisy asked as William continued to eat. 

“Fussy?” Thomas shook his head, for as much as William cried and made a scene he was just an infant. He didn’t know any better, “No, he’s a sweet little thing, he just sleeps and squirms. He’s a tired soul.” He reached forward gently touching Williams’ nose. William reached up and grabbed wildly at Thomas’ hands. The pair of them played a small game of tug-of-war, Thomas moving his hands back and forth while William grabbed at him. Thomas burst out laughing, amused at his own game. Daisy watched, amazed. 

“You’re like a different person with babies.” Daisy took him for a stranger in that moment. 

But was he all that different? Or was he just open with his feelings. Thomas couldn’t say, shrugging as he rose up. William grabbed at his bottle, Thomas’ fingers taken away from him. 

“Not really.” Thomas denied, “I’m the same as I always was.” 

William was in good hands. He could stand for a break. 

Thomas parted his way through the crowd, leaving Sybbie sitting upon her chair as he headed to the boot room and gently pulled the door to. He took a moment to yawn, rubbing at his temples and relaxing upon a work bench as he slowly laid his head upon the wooden table. God he was so exhausted he could go to sleep right here right now-

But the door opened and Thomas jerked up at once, rubbing feverishly at his swollen eyes to see Bates shutting the door behind him. 

The pair of them stared at one another, suddenly alone for the first time since Dr. Kinsey’s intervention.   
Neither of them were particularly happy about it. 

“Are you the same?” Bates asked. “When you act like a mirror opposite of the apathetic hound we knew you to be? Cooing and coddling, you’re practically his mother.” 

“It takes a village.” Was Thomas’ dry response. Bates walked slowly across the boot room floor, coming to stand directly before Thomas though the table parted them. “Is there something you need?” 

“Now that you’re to be butler, I suppose you’re going to put me out of the job.” 

Thomas bristled at the ice in Bates’ voice. He didn’t need this. “What kind of wretch would I be if I put a new father out of his job?” 

“The same wretch you were in 1912 I gather-“ 

“Ah but were you a new father then?” Thomas sneered, sliding off his bar stool to head for the door. Bates cut him off, his voice growing hard. 

“Don’t walk away from me when I’m talking to you.” Bates snapped, sharp. Thomas bristled again, refusing to turn around for the angry man he knew he’d find waiting for him. It seemed the conversation with Dr. Kinsey had changed nothing- “When I’m talking to you, listen to me. That’s the respectful thing to do.” 

What was he, a toddler. He looked around, glaring dully. 

“I need to know what you plan to do as Butler.” Bates snapped. “I have a family to protect, and for as much as you dote on William I have to know where my job stands. You could easily dismiss me-“ 

Thomas let out a cold laugh. He could sooner break his femur in this house. 

“Oh yes,” Thomas sneered at the idea, “I’ll just dismiss you and no one will put up a fight, eh?” 

“They wouldn’t if it was Carson-“ 

“They would too, and you know it!” Thomas snapped, “Stop denying your popularity in this house-!” 

“So long as you stop pretending that’s all that matters!” Bates snapped right back, “What are you, twelve?! You’re a grown man! There are more important things in the world than being liked-!” 

“I know that!” Thomas was about to start shouting. Jesus, Bates really thought he was daft. “Why are you dragging this out with me, I thought we were trying to turn over a new leaf-?!” 

“Because I have a son now, and I have to protect him!” Bates said in a hot rush, eyes blazing as he leaned aggressively upon his cane, “I don’t care if you’re nanny! You’ll never be a father, you can’t possibly understand what it’s like to have a child all your own.” 

Thomas froze.   
Bates fell silent. 

No. He’d never be a father. No matter how much he longed to be.   
Thomas crossed his arms over his chest, turning away so that he was once more staring at the door. He rubbed a bit at his mouth, thinking over his words carefully. Dr. Kinsey had warned him not to speak quickly. 

“… Have you spoken to his Lordship about your concerns?” Thomas asked the door. 

“I have.” 

“And what did he say?” 

Bates huffed, dismayed, “To give you a chance.” 

“Then you have your answer.” Thomas reached for the doorknob. 

“Do not leave the room when I’m talking to you-!” Bates snapped, his temper suddenly flaring again, “Do you not realize how rude that is?” 

Thomas turned on his heel, heat flooding his face as his eyes blazed and his lips pursed. 

“What more do you want to say?” Thomas demanded, “Jesus you’re beating a dead horse-?” 

“It’s not good enough.” Bates snapped. “I want an apology.” 

“…You…” Thomas let go of the door, hands upon his hips as he tilted and glared dully at Bates. Bates raised an eyebrow looking him up and down, “You want an apology for me touching a doorknob-?” 

“Blaming me for theft, and trying to get me fired. Twice.” Bates growled. 

Ah. 

Thomas’ hands slipped from his hips. He shift once, twice, drawing his hands up to cross his arms over his chest as he thought carefully. His heart was beginning to beat again with wild anxiety. He pursed his lips tongue rolling between his teeth as he licked his teeth and thought about what to say. 

“Why.” Thomas asked. “When it changes nothing.” 

“Your parents clearly never conveyed manners to you.” Bates said with dull derision. He did not look surprised in the slightest. 

“They never conveyed anything to me.” Thomas corrected. Sneering as he added, “Do you want to play at chance at being me da? Take off your belt and give me a good licking with it?” 

“I’d rather just teach you a thing or two about manners: such as that when you do wrong, you apologize. Make it a habit and see how it helps. Your malicious behavior needs to stop if you want to stand a chance in the world without turning to a razor-“ 

“Do not joke about that.” Thomas spat, temper popping. “Ever.” 

Bates raised his hands in surrender. 

“Fine.” He growled, “But my point still stands. I want an apology, right here right now. I want to know this business is behind us.” 

Thomas couldn’t follow the logic in that. Words had never healed any pain in his own heart, or changed any situation for the better… but Dr. Kinsey had instructed him to act with care, to speak with caution, and to above all have emotional honesty. 

That did not make this any less hard though. 

“… I’m…” Thomas pursed his lips again, every word like wet cement slipping from his mouth, “Sorry. That I lied. That I tried to get you fired.” 

“Why did you do it?” Bates asked, sounding thoroughly disappointed and dismayed. All the anger had fled him, leaving him a weary man with the weight of the world upon his shoulders. “Why, when I didn’t even know you-?” 

“I wanted your job.” It was the ugly truth. 

“And you didn’t find that selfish?” Bates demanded. “To rob me of my job just because you wanted it for yourself?” 

“It’s not selfish to want better for your life.” 

“That job was never entitled to you.” Bates warned. 

“Well it was never entitled to you either!” Thomas added angrily, “And you couldn’t even do it right! You were hurt, you could barely lift a valise-!” 

“I told you several times, I could manage!” 

“But you couldn’t manage!” Thomas snapped, “And I could! And I got passed up for you because I was-“ But at this Thomas broke off, shaking his head. 

He couldn’t say the word, somehow it was stuck in his throat: _Queer, different, gay, a lavender, a gunsel and catamite-_

But Bates just shook his head in dismay. 

“You got passed up because you were an _arse.”_ Bates growled out the word with venom. It stung, and Thomas bristled, looking away. “Not because you were-“ But even Bates cut off, gesturing fruitlessly in the air. 

“A gunsel.” Thomas supplied softly. 

“-No.” Bates overrode him at once. “A… homosexual.” And when he said it he said it with absolute care. “None of us care that you are a homosexual.” 

Thomas cut him off with a scoff. Little did Bates know Lady Pelham was in the library ready to throw him to the dogs for being like the late Marquess of Hexam. No doubt she wished he’d die of malaria too. 

“I’m leaving now.” Thomas said before Bates could get mad at him, “You’ve gotten your apology, goodbye.” 

“I’m not finished-“ Bates warned. 

“Well I am!” Thomas cried out in dismay! Bates scoffed, rubbing his temple like he was forming a migraine. 

“Just- just stay here and have it out with me-“ 

“Goodbye!” Thomas said loudly again, wrenching the door to the boot room open. 

“Thomas, come back here-!”   
“I’m leaving, now!” 

“Thomas-!”   
“This conversation has officially ended.” 

“Thomas-!” Bates stepped out into the hall.   
Thomas turned around, walking backwards momentarily so that they were facing one another. 

“I am _leaving!_ ” he said the word with exaggerated care like Bates were daft. “Goodbye! This is the word we use when we are exiting a scenario! Say it with me! Goodbye!” 

Bates looked ready to crack his head against the wall again. 

~*~

Lady Pelham left after tea, and thank god for it. 

Tom had sat in the library, daring himself not to look at the picture burning a hole in his coat pocket. When he changed into white tie for dinner, he slipped the photograph into his inner pocket, too afraid to leave it alone even in his own room. 

He thought about it over dinner, cutting carefully into his Beef Wellington as Carson held court without ever touching a single plate. Andy and Moseley catered to the room, and would continue to do so until Thomas managed to find a replacement nanny (he’d apparently been doing interviews quite recently). Of course, he wasn’t stupid. He knew there were people in the world he hated homosexual men but he’d never been one of them. He could remember growing up in Ireland he’d had moments where he’d seen men and thought them lookers. What was the point in denying pleasure or beauty in the world? His older brother Kieran had never been the type, had only looked to the ladies, but when Tom had confided in him one night nervous about the implications Kieran had just laughed and taken him out for a beer. 

_“Pleasure’s to be had, Tommy boy.”_ Kieran had assured him, toasting Tom with his foaming tankard. _“If you deny it you deny God’s blessings. That’s what I believe.”_

And so they’d gotten blindingly drunk that night, Tom utterly relaxed and Kieran as at peace as ever. 

Of course, he’d liked women too. Sybil had captivated him heart and soul- the problem being now that whenever he thought about her there was an ugly ache in his chest. He supposed he was just a rare breed, a man who could see the good on both sides of the pitch, who didn’t mind what pasture he was on. It just so happened he’d fallen in love with a woman. He supposed he could have fallen in love with a man if Sybil had turned out to be a man- but the thought of Sybil as a man was an incredibly confusing one so he didn’t follow that train of thought long. He instead focused on his Syllabub, watching carefully as Robert and Cora talked about their day out and Henry enchanted them all with tales of the village. 

Tom knew he’d have to tell Robert about Lady Pelham’s visit to ensure Thomas’ safety.   
He just didn’t know what Robert would think and that made him nervous. 

Syllabub turned into mindless post-dinner chatter as the footmen took away the platters at Tom caught Robert’s eye. Robert noted his stiff expression, and Tom jerked his head silently towards the door so that Robert raised an eyebrow but said nothing more. 

Message sent. 

Tom rose from his chair, and when Henry offered him a late night whiskey Tom could not deny him. The pair of them went to the small library, promised to be followed shortly by Robert who wanted to have a word with Carson first. 

“Did it go alright?” Henry muttered, for he’d been the only one to know of Lady Pelham’s secret visit. A key member in his plan to keep the house planned. 

“I’ve got something to show you.” Tom muttered back, careful to keep his voice low. “You’re going to scream.” 

“Oh goody. Show and tell.” Henry sneered, causing Tom to snort. 

They entered the small library and shut the door, the pair of them pouring a whiskey for each other as they sat upon the small couch and relaxed peacefully by the quiet fire. 

Alright, Tom would be lying if he said he wasn’t just slightly attracted to Henry Talbot. He toasted the man silently, internally praising his charisma and good looks as Henry toasted him back. 

“So?” Henry asked. “Show me your prize.” 

Tom whipped the photograph off. Henry took it, saw what it was, and immediately spat out his whiskey so that he sprayed it onto his trousers and the fine rug between the two cramped coughs. He coughed hard, out of breath. Tom smacked him hard upon the back to help him out, and Henry wiped his mouth, whipping out his handkerchief to sop up his face and dab at his trousers. 

“Jesus christ, Tom!” Henry cursed, “You could have warned me. 

“Absolutely not.” Tom sneered, taking the photograph back and putting it back in his pocket. 

“He give that to you, did he?” Henry joked darkly. 

“I wish!” Tom scoffed; he doubted he could ever catch the eye of such a shining fish. “No, this is what Lady Pelham wanted to show me. She was as angry as a wet hen, I can tell you.” 

“Did you sooth the beast?” 

“I did, but I’d best tell Robert before she does.” 

“Good thinking.” Henry re poured his whiskey, and they clinked their glasses again as the pair of them admired Thomas’ picture in an outstretched hand. “Here’s to good tasting whiskey-“ 

“And good looking men.” Tom added. The pair of them drank till both their whiskeys were gone, and Tom stowed the picture back in his breast pocket. Not a minute later the door opened to reveal Robert, looking tuckered out as he closed the door and smiled at the pair of them on the couch. 

“Here I am.” Robert gestured with a smile, taking a seat on the same couch as Tom. Now the three of them were all banging knees, making for a comfy picture.

“Thank you for obliging me.” Tom said as Robert leaned over and made to pour himself a whiskey. Instead of drinking it himself he handed the glass to Tom who accepted it at once and took a hearty sip. It burned like hot honey in his throat and soothed his celtic soul. “I wanted to talk to you about something away from the others.” 

“Golly that sounds ominous.” Robert chortled. 

“Slightly.” Tom admitted, “Do you want a whiskey too?” 

“No,” Robert relaxed a little into the couch, slightly stiff. He sighed glancing at Tom and Henry, “I can’t stomach whiskey much anymore. What’s wrong?” 

“Lady Pelham came today.” Tom admitted. Robert looked taken aback, “She knows about Thomas and… she’s not happy. That’s why I got everyone out of the house. I didn’t know what she’d try to do. You’ll forgive me for not keeping you in the plan but I figured it was a security measure.” 

Robert rolled his eyes, heaving a haggard sigh. He made himself a whiskey despite his earlier words, though Tom noted that his drink was much more ice that alcohol and he took very small sips. 

“I was worried this would happen.” Robert admitted. “You should have heard the way she talked about her late nephew. Bertie said he’d never known a nicer man but the way she talked about him you’d think he was Lucifer.” 

“She wants him out of the house.” Tom admitted. Robert snorted, bitter at the insinuation. Henry made a sad sound in his mouth, relaxing his chin in his hand as he surveyed the other two.

“I’ll do no such thing.” Robert growled. “I might not be a young man but I am still in charge of my staff.” 

“So long as you’re aware that she found… proof… that he and Peter had known one another, if only distantly.” 

“What kind of proof?” 

“The kind that you can see.” 

“Now you’re worrying me.” 

Here came the moment where whiskey was needed. Tom pulled out the picture of Thomas and slowly handed it over to Robert who took it up, curious. Henry buried his face in his hand, starting to blush. Robert snorted loudly when he saw the picture, starting to laugh gayly as he sat his whiskey down to better look at the picture. 

“Golly moses.” Robert snickered, “That’s a picture-!“ He looked again, baffled by what he saw. “This can’t be recent. He looks much younger-“ 

“I don’t think he knows Peter had it in his possession. If Thomas knew you’d seen that photograph he’d be horrified.” Tom wondered. 

“Oh I’ll keep it to myself.” Robert chortled. “Don’t tell Cora I ever said this, but you have to admit… he is oddly beautiful, isn’t he.” 

“Yes.” Tom agreed, “He is.” 

“Mmm.” Henry did not comment either way. “Doesn’t hold a candle to my Mary, though.” 

“Of course not.” Robert agreed. 

Robert handed the photograph back over. Tom pocketed it at once. 

“Keep that out of sight.” Robert warned him, “Burn it in your room. I don’t want Thomas being harassed for such things… he’s already had a rough year.” Robert’s gaze turned dark, somber, and it worried Tom immensely. “I’ll handle Lady Pelham.” 

“And you’re not perturbed by it?” Tom asked, waving the picture about, “The fact that he had this taken?” 

“My own eldest daughter spent a week in sin at an affluent hotel without it ever reaching my ears till a former chamber maid tried to use it as blackmail.” Robert muttered, toasting Tom with his whiskey. Henry looked smug, clearly already in the know. Tom pursed his lips to keep from laughing… Henry liked his women wild, “Nothing surprises me anymore.” 

“Lady Pelham was rather sharp about Peter.” Tom admitted. “She may be difficult to abate-“ 

“Well I am tougher than I look.” Robert warned, and in that moment his gentle eyes blazed with an inner fire; the fire of a young man contained in an older man’s body. “And Thomas Barrow is not leaving this house.” 

~*~  
Upstairs and completely oblivious to the fact that Lord Grantham had just seen him partially naked, Thomas Barrow sat in his rocking chair with a sleeping William upon his chest, watching over Sybbie and George as they sat up in bed and refused to go to sleep. The hour was waning, they ought to go down but neither wanted to. Mercifully, Thomas had a hidden arsenal for this and was about to whip out Princess Jimmy when Sybbie leaned forward and urged, “Story please?” 

“Mm, which one?” Thomas asked, patting William’s back with a slow and gentle thump. 

“A new one.” George declared. Thomas paused in his thumping, eyes narrowing as he thought of new stories he might be able to tell. Maybe he could pull something out of his ass about stealing 24 bottles of wine or perhaps retell them something that he had heard as a child. That seemed like a better idea because he had no idea how to weave a fable out of the wine without feeling like the world’s biggest idiot. 

“Did I ever tell you why the sea is salty?” Thomas asked. 

“No.” Sybbie shook her head, brown hair bouncing about her ears. 

“Ah… Well, shall I?” Thomas offered. At once George snuggled underneath his covers till only the tip of his nose and his eyes were peaking out. Sybbie relaxed into her pillow, pulling up her Christmas doll (which she’d named ‘Lucy’). 

“Please!” George urged when Thomas did not immediately start talking. 

“Please Mista Bawwow.” Sybbie added, thoroughly exaggerating his name in an attempt to charm him. He raised an eyebrow, amused, and settled into his rocking chair to tell the tale: 

“Well, a very long time ago there lived two brothers by the sea. One was very rich, and one was very poor. The poor brother was often in want, and desperately needed meal to eat lest he starve in the bitter frost of winter. So he went to the rich brother’s door and bade him a place at his table. But the rich brother had grown his wealth through hard work and didn’t believe in hand outs. So instead of giving his brother a meal, he gave him a meal grinder and told him ‘Go out into the fields, get your own wheat, and make your own meal’ and shut the door. Now, the poor brother was very weak from lack of food, and couldn’t possibly do all these tasks in one night let alone three, and fell to his knees in the fields weeping to the heavens with his new meal grinder. He told the gods that if only they would give him the strength, he would make his own meal. But the gods saw his suffering and were displeased at the rich brother’s lack of charity. So instead of giving the poor brother mere strength to make a meal… they blessed his meal grinder so that it suddenly shown with a heavenly light. And not only would it now be able to make any meal by itself, it could also craft any item it was bade to. Even items that a meal grinder ought not to be able to make.” 

Sybbie and George were enraptured by this point, absolutely silent. 

“Amazed, the poor brother begged for a pot of kedgeree and stew… and just like that the blessed meal grinder made his supper.” Thomas snapped his fingers for emphasis. 

“So the poor man feasted heartily, and grew strong, and at once told his friends who were likewise poor of his newfound fortune. They all feasted, and were quite merry much to the displeasure of the rich brother who couldn’t understand why it was that despite not working the poor brother was now eating like a king. The poor brother lived in a homely shack by the sea, often whipped by the fierce gale of storms, so with his meal grinder he now made a home that shone like gold, and was never in want again. Each night there was a feast at his table, and any man was welcome to sit at his table. So it was that ships passing in the night would see his golden house and often come for supper to hear tales of his magical meal grinder. Yet in all this joy, the poor man still felt for want, though he could not understand why at first in a house made of gold with a feast to sup at. But then he realized, as he lay in his huge bed alone, that he was lonely, and so he bade the magical meal grinder to make him a bride. The most beautiful, loving, and true bride in all the world… but the meal grinder would not make.” 

Thomas shrugged at this, a look of forced forlorn upon his head. The children were so silent now they could have passed for asleep. 

“The man couldn’t understand, so he went out into the fields as he’d done before and asked the gods, ‘why won’t you make me a bride’? and the gods answered that no man could ‘make’ a bride. Not even a magical meal grinder. Such things were found only through honest intentions and courage. So the man put out a post on ships passing by that came to sup, and said that he was looking for a bride. That he made to woo her with his honest intentions and courage- that she would never be for want- that his only requirement would be that she love him fully and adoringly as if he had no meal grinder at all. Now, many women came to beg the man to wed, but the meal grinder rejected them all. It refused to grind when they were near, simply shutting down and growing cold by the lack of their affection. Displeased, the man sent the false brides away and began to grow wane in despair. Despite how the meal grinder could make feast and gold… it could not make happiness. But it could make one thing.” 

He paused for emphasis, waiting with a smirk. 

“What?” George whispered. 

“Tell us.” Sybbie urged sleepily, her head nestled atop her doll. 

“…Salt.” Thomas told them both. 

“Salt?” The children asked, practically in unison. Thomas was almost certain he heard a snort outside the nursery door and wondered who else was listening to his story. 

“Ah but in those days there was great wealth in salt. Rich men would grow richer still by owning salt mines, and would often send very poor men down into the dark to dig it up for them. But the poor man had never thought of this. He’d never needed salt… but there was a trader at sea who’d thought of this, who’d heard of a powerful man with a magical meal grinder… and who had a sister as beautiful and commanding as the sea itself. So the trader went to call on the poor man and his magical meal grinder… and brought his sister with him. And he supped with the man and explained that he would offer his sister for a bride, but for a price. The man could have her, and be happy with her always… but in exchange would have to give the trader the magical meal grinder.” 

George gasped softly, eyes slowly falling shut. 

“Well the poor man thought it through, and wondered about his new bride. If she might be displeased with his lack of wealth once the meal grinder went away. She replied that she’d never sought the meal grinder to begin with. Only a man to love her wholly… and so they were wed and the trader went off with his new meal grinder- but not before giving his new brother in law ten thousand pounds which he’d made from the meal grinder, so that his sister and her husband might never be in want. Off the trader went, taking the meal grinder with him into the sea, and upon the deck of the ship the man thus commanded his new tool “Make me salt, and make it swift and sure so that I might grow rich.” So the meal grinder began to make salt. But so swift was it and so sure was it that suddenly the deck was overflowing with salt, spilling into the churning water… and the gods were deeply displeased by the trader. The poor man had only wanted food and a warm house to sup with friends. This man wanted wealth! The gods cursed the meal grinder in that moment, furious the man would attempt to shy from hard work, and told it to never stop grinding salt. To give him all the salt in the world, and sink him to the bottom of the ocean with it… and so it did, taking the ship under in a horrific wave of salt that spilled into the depths. Thus the trader, his ship, and that magical meal grinder sank right to the bottom of the ocean… where to this day it still sits churning out salt, helpless to be stopped. And that is why the ocean is salty.” 

Thomas fell silent. George squirmed slightly underneath his many quilts, desperately fighting off sleep. 

“Another…” He mumbled softly. “Please…” 

“Please…” Sybbie whispered, barely speaking as much as she was just mumbling into her pillows and Lucy the doll. 

“Mmm, I think it’s time for both of you to be in bed.” Thomas whispered, rising up slowly from his rocking chair to cross the room and turn off the light. The nursery was plunged in sudden darkness. 

“No…” George whimpered softly. 

“Yes.” Thomas tutted back. He paused, bending with William scooped to his chest to give George the softest kiss upon the temple. He turned, giving Sybbie the same. By this point only soft breathing filled the nursery room. Yet as he made to turn, Sybbie opened her dark brown eyes to stop him dead. 

“Who is the person you talk to on your board?” 

Thomas froze eyes wide. _Shit_.   
She’d seen him with the ouija board? But how? He’d always done it when they were dead asleep- 

_You fool!_ a marble hissed in his brain, _As if children do what they’re told when the lights are out. You’re the nanny for a reason!_

“My darling…” Thomas leaned in close so that he could cover her face, rubbing her brow and temple till she closed her eyes agian, “We must never talk about that. It wasn’t for you to see or hear.” 

“Why?” She asked, eyes closed. 

“Because it was private.” Thomas murmured, “Your grandfather would be furious should he ever know, and I love you so…” He kissed her temple again, “and I don’t want to be parted from you. So let’s never tell, mmm?” Sybbie nodded, half-asleep “Good girl.” 

He rose up, heading for the nursery door intent on putting William in his crib (which was now in the play room in an attempt to keep William nearer a warm hearth in his sleep). A tiny voice stopped him: 

“Mista Bawwow?” George whispered. 

“Mm?” Thomas turned, looking back on George. His eyes were closed but his brow was furrowed as if in pain. 

“Do you love William more than me?” 

What utter nonsense.   
Thomas crossed the room again, taking to a knee before George to pepper his brow and temple with kisses so that he could whisper directly into his ear. 

“Such silliness.” He assured George in the softest voice. Sweet George, perfect George, “I love you all the same, with every inch of my cold minuscule heart.”

George was already asleep. 

Thomas left the nursery room with care, opening the door to the playroom and shutting it softly behind him till the latch finally clicked. He was not surprised nor stalled by the sight of John Bates leaning against the hearth of the playroom, waiting for Thomas to put William to bed before he went to bed himself. Clearly he’d come for round two. Thomas gave the man a small bitter smile as he walked over to William’s crib and gently laid him down. No fuss, no bite; William was out like a light and Thomas easily covered him with a tiny knitted quilt that Anna had made during her pregnancy. It was red and blue, covered in geometric patterns… the colors of the house. 

“Rather good at telling stories.” Bates mused in the semi-dark. The shadows of the hearth, low with burning coals, made his face plunge into black so that only the sharpest parts of his features stood out: his square jaw and hard nose. 

“Were you listening?” Thomas asked, looking up to lean a bit against the railing of William’s crib. 

“I was.” Bates said, “Where did you learn that tale?” 

“I lived it.” Thomas shrugged, for if he had to paint his life as a tale of misery, it would be a man without a prayer or a meal grinder. Or a bride. 

“Where’s your magical meal grinder?” Bates sneered softly. 

“At the bottom of the ocean churning out salt.” Thomas reminded him “Didn’t you listen?” 

“And your bride?” 

_My darling_ , Edward called to him beyond the veil. “Went down with the ship.” 

Before Bates could comment on that particularly morbid thought, William huffed and chuffed, grumbling. Thomas reached down to touched William’s stomach before he could start crying. 

“No.” Thomas warned him gently, “No more of that hear? I won’t stand for it.” 

William was already asleep again. 

“…About what I said-“ Bates murmured, “Did it hurt your feelings?” 

Thomas bristled, a hand still upon William’s stomach. He glanced up and caught Bates’ eye. “Not as much as I hurt yours, I gather.” 

“You never hurt my feelings.” Bates shrugged, “You just disappointed me. And annoyed me.” 

Thomas didn’t want to have this conversation. He straightened up, lips pursed. “I don’t want to have this conversation.” Thomas whispered. 

“It needs to be had.” Bates warned. 

“Does it?” Thomas challenged, raising an eyebrow. “Will it change the past? Will it erase the pain I put you through-“ 

“No but it will improve the future.” Bates warned, “And your reputation in the house.” 

Thomas sighed, somehow exhausted even by just the simple act of talking. He rubbed his brow, but before he could say as much the door to the play room opened to reveal Tom who looked surprised to find both Bates and Thomas waiting inside. 

“Tom-“ Thomas was grateful for his arrival, thinking now he could easily avoid the conversation with Bates. Bates pursed his lips, irritated as he realized Thomas’ angle, and crossed his arms over his chest. 

“I hope I’m not intruding.” 

“No, not at all.” Bates grumbled, “Thomas was just avoiding a conversation.” And with that he turned, heading for the door to the hall. He cast one look back at his son, not saying a word to Tom or Thomas as he left. Tom watched him go, confused. 

“What conversation were you avoiding?” Tom asked, closing the door after Bates’ back. 

“One I didn’t want to have.” Thomas admitted, coming around Williams crib so that they were now standing before one another. Was it just his warped imagination or did Tom look even more handsome in the firelight. “Don’t halt my fun, how can I help you?” 

“Oh I wouldn’t dream of it.” Tom chuckled softly, “He’ll get you in the end, you can’t avoid him forever.” 

“I can try.” 

“I need to talk to you.” Tom admitted, casting a glance back over his shoulder at the door to the hall. “Rather… in private.” 

How much more private could they get? 

But Tom was opening the door to the nursery, and Thomas followed through at once as they crossed the room again to open the door to Thomas’ private quarters. It seemed that whatever Tom wanted to say he didn’t want an eavesdropper in the hallway to hear. Concerned, Thomas watched as Tom gently closed the door to Thomas’ bedroom, turning with a small smile. 

“… Is it Lady Pelham?” Thomas asked, unsure of what else it could be. 

Tom just kept smiling, looking slightly sympathetic as he reached into his vest pocket and withdrew an aged photograph. He handed it over to Thomas, face down, so that he had to flip it over as he accepted- 

“Oh god-!” Thomas blurted out, clapping a hand to his mouth to keep from issuing any more noise as he clutched the picture to his chest. His heart was positively hammering in his chest-! 

How-?!   
_How?!_

“Shh-“ Tom raised up a hand in soft surrender, his expression still sympathetic as he regarded Thomas’ fear. “It’s alright. I took care of it. She won’t bother you… .apparently your picture caught the eye of the Marquess, Peter.” 

Dumbfounded, Thomas dropped his hands from his face so that his picture was clutched limply by his stomach instead. He stared at Tom, slightly hurt. 

“..He… He had this?” Thomas whispered, confused.   
How could Peter have had this when Thomas had given this picture personally to Philip? 

~*~ 

_“That’s good now, love-“ the camera man had coaxed him, angling his tripod for a better shot, “Just keep your face turned to the camera, that’s a doll now, lick your lips? Chew on them a bit, get them plump- that’s a doll-“_

_Just off to the left, out of sight to the shot, Philip had watched him amazed._   
_The last day of their summer dalliance, a picture to last them a lifetime._

_“Now drop your sheet-“ The camera man urged._

_“No-“ Thomas had blurted out. “No. I don’t want to do that-“_

_“Of course-“ Philip had assured him before the camera man could argue, “That’s perfectly fine sweetheart. I already know what you look like from that angle.”_

_Thomas had blushed deep scarlet, shocked at Philip’s proud proclamation, and the camera man had taken advantage of his demure expression to snap the photograph._

~*~

“He did.” Tom told him, “And others. That’s how she recognized you at the wedding. She’d found these pictures when she was clearing out his bedroom after his death.” 

So that explained why she’d slammed the door in his face. 

_Gunsel!_ the marbles cheered delightedly in his head, _Gunsel, gunsel, gunsel!_

“What’s the matter?” Tom asked, sensing Thomas’ shame and reluctance. Thomas turned away, so that Tom could now only see his profile in the dark. The moonlight illuminated him, and nothing else. 

“…This belonged to someone else.” Thomas admitted in a whisper, “I guess he gave it away.” 

“Who did it belong to?” Tom asked. 

Thomas turned, catching Tom’s eye. Another secret to tell, another brick in their bridge to one another. Amazing how much Thomas trusted him, how he knew that even as he told Tom his soul, Tom would keep it safe… 

Just like he’d done for this picture. 

“The Duke of Crowborough.” Thomas said. Tom snorted, grinning at the idea of Thomas being courted by a duke. Thomas looked away smiling. “Yes, I know. Funny isn’t it… to imagine me with a duke?” 

“I just didn’t think you went in for that type.” Tom admitted, “You said you enjoyed the more ‘down to earth’ sort. 

“Well he didn’t go in for my type other.” Thomas said bitterly, memories flashing back to a fireplace burning with love letters and a wild grapple for physical control. “So… all’s fair.” 

He looked back at the photograph again, suddenly amazed by it. How young he’d been then, how whole and fair. If only he’d known then how awful his life would become- he might have slit his wrists fifteen years earlier. 

“I made this for him.” Thomas whispered, “He wanted it… Said… Said when we were apart he’d-“ 

~*~

_“When we’re apart, let me look at it and kiss your lips.” Philip had whispered softly in Thomas’ ear as he redressed from taking his erotic photo. The camera man bustled over his files, busy. In their moment of seclusion, Philip pulled him close and kissed him passionately upon the lips till Thomas clung to him and finally let go of his top sheet. Nude but safe in Philip’s arms, he’d listened breathless as Philip had whispered in his ear, “Let your beauty soothe me in the dark of my dreams-“_

~*~

“Let your beauty soothe me in the dark of my dreams.” Thomas repeated the aged words. Tom watched, listening intently. “Silly.” He whispered, dropping his photo to his side again. 

“No.” Tom shook his head head, “You are very beautiful. Then and now-“ 

Thomas flushed, glancing at Tom who’d raised a cocky eyebrow.   
The cheek. 

“Are you flirting with me?” Thomas joked, crossing his arms over his chest. Tom just shrugged. 

“I am indeed.” Tom said. He held out his hand, and Thomas let him have the picture back. There was no point in him holding onto it any longer. It wasn’t like he’d have a lover ever again. Despite Tom’s assurance, he knew he was ugly. 

Tom pocket the picture, tucking it safely out of sight, “Don’t worry about the picture. I’ll take care of it tonight. Can you make that face, though?” Thomas looked around confused, “You know, the… one you were making in the picture.” 

Thomas chuckled, looking away again as he licked his lips and chewed on his bottom lip just as he’d done so long ago. Fixing his expression, he looked back around to Tom with the sweetest expression of sultry longing mixed with innocence. Tom snorted, flushing as he rubbed his brow with a free hand and grumbled. 

“God.” Tom was clearly amused, “You’re breakin’ my heart.” 

How lucky for Thomas he did not have a heart to break. 

 

The next day, Thomas sat downstairs with a maid looking after the children, observing Ms. Armstrong’s resume and wondering at what needed to be done. Moseley couldn’t keep coming up to serve the family dinner- it was exhausting him and he had school to attend to. A decision had to be made and Ms. Armstrong was the obvious candidate. Thomas had already called both the Doneley’s and the Beckonsfield’s to check her references. Both butlers had praised her highly, commending her at once to Thomas who had kept the conversation short and hung up at once. He drummed his fingers upon Carson’s desk, completely ignoring his cooling cup of tea made for him by Daisy. 

The door opened to reveal Carson who pursed his lips to see Thomas sitting in his chair. Thomas got up at once, coming around the front of the desk so that Carson could sit down instead. Carson did so at once, sighing as he surveyed Ms. Armstrong’s resume as well. 

“Are you attending to the family’s needs?” Mr. Carson asked carefully. 

“I am.” Thomas assured him, poking through the silver cabinet. He didn’t know why but it soothed him to see that everything was neat and in order. “I was just about to make a decision on the vacant position of Nanny.” 

“I see.” Mr. Carson sounded pleased. “Did you call Ms. Armstrong’s prior employers?” 

“I did.” Thomas straightened a milk pitcher that gleamed in the sharp afternoon light, “Their praise was abundant. Apparently they were saddened to part with her but she wanted to live in the country where it was quieter. She’s a traditionalist but not overbearing… and what’s more she doubles as a governess for when the children get older.” Thomas paused, pursing his lips, “But I don’t know.” 

“Why are you hesitating?” Carson wondered aloud. Thomas shut the door to the silver pantry, locking it carefully. The sound of metal sliding was uncomfortably loud in his tense silence. 

“Do you remember Nanny West?” Thomas asked, looking around. Carson scowled at the name, crossing his arms over his chest. 

“I do.” Mr. Carson said, “And I’ll have you know I’m already aware that you were the one who caught her abusing the children. Lady Grantham praised you abundantly to me for your sharp eyes.” 

Thomas looked away. It seemed Mr. Carson did not need to hear the reason for his hesitation. He already knew. 

“Make your disposition on the matter of abuse clear, and offer her the position.” Carson advised. “Remind her that you are her employer and should she harm the children she will suffer your wrath.” Carson let out a terse short chuckle, “A fate I would not wish on my worst enemy.” 

 

“I thought I was your worst enemy.” Thomas joked dully. Carson shook his head, relaxing back in his chair so that it squeaked slightly. 

“Hardly.” 

 

So it was with Carson’s advise still ringing in his ears that Thomas called Sarah Armstrong back and had her come in for her final interview. Little did she know that Thomas had already drawn up her contract and merely needed a signature to sign her on board. Before all that could be done, however, he had one final parting gift to give. One last thread of advice for her to follow. 

Sarah Armstrong entered the office, short smile already in place and her brown coat back on as she shook Thomas’ hand and sat back down in Carson’s guest chair. Thomas drummed his fingers on the wood, wary as he noted that her nails were tightly manicured, that all her outfits seemed to match in one way or another. What did that mean? Was she uptight or… just… smart with her dressings- Thomas needed to pull it together. He sighed, pursing his lips as he surveyed her. 

“Ms. Armstrong, I’ve telephoned you today because you are the most prospective of all the nannies that I’ve interviewed.” Thomas said, failing to mention that the applicants had included children and alcoholics. “And I’ll mark you that I’ve interviewed many.” 

“Thank you Mr. Barrow.” Armstrong said, her voice smug. 

“However.” Thomas said, and he noted Armstrong’s smile dropped at once. “Before I can give you your contract, I must give you warning.” 

She shifted a bit upon her chair, expression curious. 

“There are three children in this house to attend to.” Thomas said, showing three fingers, “Miss Sybbie, the daughter of Mr. Branson and the late Lady Sybil, Master George, the son of Lady Mary and the late heir Mr. Crawley… and William Bates, a newborn babe of the Bates family who attend as valet and lady’s maid to the family.” 

Lady Armstrong nodded, eyes narrowing as if in calculation. 

“Mr. Branson, Sybbie’s father, is a good man who has worked hard in the world. He started as a chauffeur to this house, where he met and fell in love with Lady Sybil. Lady Sybil died of pre eclampsia not too soon after giving birth to Sybbie. When Sybbie was but a year old, and Master George was but a newly born infant, I discovered that the former nanny was beating and starving Sybbie…. because her father was a former chauffeur while Master George’s late father was the heir to the estate.” 

Armstrong shifted in her chair again, suddenly seeming to grasp the gravity of the situation. 

“I took that cow and had her thrown out on her backside.” Thomas growled. “And mark me, if I ever- and I do mean ever-“ he added in a dark tone, “discover that you’re doing the same… you’ll be out too.” 

“Now, there’s no need to threaten, Mr. Barrow-“ Armstrong grumbled, put off. 

“Oh there’s every need, I assure you.” Thomas snapped, cutting her off. “I have been attending to the children as a substitute Nanny for the past five months. I’ve only just recently took over the position as Butler from Mr. Carson, and even now, even at this very hour… I care for the children. They are as dear to me as if they were my own, and I will not have them harmed.” 

Armstrong sighed, pursing her lips. She regarded him in that moment frankly, without irritation or happiness- merely seeing him clearly. 

“So I will ask you this once and I expect full honesty.” Thomas warned. “Do you beat children?” 

“I do not beat children for their lineage.” Armstrong said, disgruntled, “I do not beat them at all.” 

“Do you starve them?” 

“I’d rather starve myself.” Armstrong said, and there was such strong defiance in her tone that Thomas’ fears were put at ease. 

He decided in that moment that he would extend the hand of trust. If she said she did not beat nor starve children, he would choose to believe her. If she proved him wrong, he would know and he would make her pay. The others might imagine him cowed, calm, demure… but he still knew how to shake the very foundations of the earth with blackmail and treachery. She would rue the day she’d ever stepped foot in the abbey. 

Thomas reached into Mr. Carson’s desk drawer, and pulled out the awaiting contract. He slid it across the table, and Armstrong took it to read it at once. 

So it was that the paperwork was signed, and Armstrong’s arrival date was set for Friday, giving Thomas a final day to sate and soothe the children. The others were greatly relieved, in particular Moseley who was growing exhausted with running up to the house to serve dinner. There was animated talk in the servant’s hall that night as Thomas returned upstairs to put the children to rights and get them ready for bed. He bathed and dressed Sybbie and George for bed, watching constantly over William who was swaddled to his chest in a soft cloth sack made by Bates’ brother’s wife. Soon it would be for Anna but for now it was for him as he toweled George and Sybbie off and helped them clamber into pajamas. They got into bed, each relaxing and settling in with their favorite toy as Thomas picked up the nursery one final time and set everything to rights. 

It was then, and only then, that he turned to face the children and say what he knew he must. 

“Are we all tucked in?” Thomas asked. George nodded, Sybbie was almost asleep herself. “Well… Before we go to bed, I want to tell you something important.” 

They looked at him, both waiting calmly. 

“Mr. Carson is tired, and your grandfather wants me to be the butler.” Thomas said, “I’ve agreed, but I cannot be the butler and the nanny at the same time.” 

George sat up in bed, eyes growing wide. 

“I’ve interviewed several very nice ladies, and I have found someone very sweet, and very loving-“ 

“No!” George cut across. 

“George.” Thomas protested, “Please let me talk.” 

“No, I don’t want you to leave-“ 

“George.” Thomas repeated his name, firm. George fell silent, eyes watering and lips pursed. 

Sybbie was silent, but looked terribly concerned. Thomas knew why. 

“Her name is Sarah Armstrong.” Thomas said, “She is an experienced nanny, but I told her- and I got in her face- and I let her know that if she ever- ever-“ Thomas said with dire urgency, “hurt either of you… I’d put my boot right up her butt.” 

Sybbie burst into a fit of giggles clapping her hands over her mouth. George still looked sour. Thomas winked at Sybbie. 

“Is she old?” Sybbie asked. 

“No… She’s about Ms. Baxter’s age.” Thomas said, “Looks a bit like her too. Very clean, very professional. Good references. I called people on the telephone to ask about her! I think you’ll like her. Everyone else does. Just give her a chance.” 

George lay down in bed, turning his back on Thomas.   
It stung him. 

“…George.” Thomas walked over to George’s bedside and gently took to a knee so that he could put a hand on George’s shoulder. George shrugged him off. 

“I’m going to sleep now.” George mumbled into his pillow, eyes pinched shut. 

“… George, I love you.” Thomas whispered. George did not open his eyes. “I love you and I would stay with you forever… but I cannot do that. Life will not let me. I will never leave you but I must do what I must do, please. Let me do it.” 

George said nothing, eyes still shut. Heartbroken, Thomas leaned in and gently kissed him upon his temple. As he drew back, George shifted to hide himself beneath his covers. Sighing, Thomas went over to Sybbie, offering her a kiss. She hugged him about the neck, kissing him back on the cheek as she lay in bed and allowed him to pull up her covers. 

Sybbie whispered, “If she hurts me I’ll tell you.” 

“Good.” Thomas whispered back. “I’ll hurt her back.” 

Sybbie smiled, closing her eyes. 

He turned off the light to the nursery and headed into the play room, gently easing William out of his sling. Yet before he could put him down, a knock on the door revealed Bates. They shared a very small smile, one that wasn’t so much pleasant as it was sad while Bates shut the door. 

“I thought I’d just stop by.” Bates whispered. William began to fuss and Thomas bounced him a bit, rocking him so that he’d quiet down. 

“…Can we please not argue tonight?” Thomas whispered softly, catching Bates’ eyes. Bates cocked an eyebrow. “George is angry at me. I don’t want to fight.” 

William just wouldn’t be soothed, he grunted and squirmed, acting a right little bug. Already stressed, Thomas whispered soothing sounds in William’s ear, desperate to get him to stop crying as he rocked him back and forth. 

“Here.” 

Bates reached out, taking William from Thomas’ arms and bringing him into his own. William groused and hiccuped, twisting, but Bates put a hand upon his swollen stomach and patted him. 

William burped, fidgeted, then quieted down. Soon he was silent once more. Thomas watched, letting out a soft sigh as he pulled Anna’s sling over his head and let it drape over the side of Williams’ crib. 

“Why is George angry at you?” Bates asked. 

“Because I’m abandoning him to be the butler.” Thomas muttered, “How can I explain to him that I have no say in it. I could hardly stay nanny forever.” 

“He’ll figure it out.” Bates shrugged. “Children are resilient.” 

“The truth is that I’m tired.” Thomas admitted sadly. Bates gave him an understanding smile. “William is… a dream but…” He gestured silently. 

“It’s too much for you.” Bates said. 

“Yes.” Thomas said, feeling rather a failure in that moment. “I need a break, I need to… I don’t know… think. I love them but I can’t keep doing this. I can’t think when I’m juggling three children, one of whom is a newborn.” 

As if to prove a point, William let out a squeak of protest. Bates drummed his fingers softly upon his son’s bulging stomach. He burped again. 

“I don’t envy you having to care for three at once.” Bates agreed. “But I’m incredibly jealous of the time you’ve been able to spend with my son. I won’t deny it.” 

“I gladly give it to you.” Thomas said with a wave of the hand. “Take it. You’re the rightful owner. I feel like I’ve been robbing you. I was never meant to be nanny anyway-“ 

A sudden noise caught Thomas’ attention, and he looked around to see that the door to the nursery was ajar. There, at its crack, was George with tears streaming down his cherub face. He looked hurt, as if he’d just been betrayed upon the deepest level, and Thomas gaped at him as he took a step closer. 

“George?” Thomas demanded, shocked at the tears he saw.   
Without another word, George took off for the hall, slamming the door behind him so that William whimpered and began to cry. 

“George-!” Thomas called out, grabbing the handle to the door and yanking it back open. He could not spare a glance back to Bates or to William, content in knowing that Bates would be able to care for his son until Thomas restored order. He felt panicked, frightened, like he was on the verge of losing something utterly precious to him; he looked left and right down darkened hallways but saw nothing. 

He walked, listening intently for the sounds of shuffling feet or hiccuped breathes. He walked all the way down the end of the hall to Lord Grantham’s bedroom door but heard nothing, and took back off up the hall in the opposite direction. As he reached the other end, nearest Tom’s bedroom, Thomas heard the tiniest whimpers muffled by a linen closet door. 

Steeling himself, he took the door knob in hand and gently opened it. 

George was there, tucked into the bottom of the linen cupboard between a dust pan and a box of lightbulbs. He had hands clasped over his mouth, wet from tears as he tried to keep his noise down to a minimum in an attempt to hide from Thomas. Yet as Thomas crouched down upon his knees and extended his hands out to George, George jerked away, hiding even farther back. 

“George.” Thomas rubbed at his back, the only part that he could reach, “Georgie, why are you crying?” 

George slowly dropped his hands, eyes pinched shut even as fat tears slipped out, “You…” He drew a shaky breath, bitter, “You never loved me. You don’t want to be with me.” 

“Oh George.” Thomas’ heart ached in that moment. He stooped down even lower, trying to draw George out. “Come here-“ 

“No!” He spat, shrinking up into a tight little ball with his head between his knees, “I’m not your favowite. I nevah was.” 

“George.” Thomas reprimanded him softly, “You have always been, will always be my favorite. I do not want to leave you, but I cannot be your nanny. I have lived in a fools paradise with you for far too long. Reality is waiting. We cannot hide from it, but we can face it together…. and I don’t want to lose your love over this. Not when it’s what keeps me going.” 

George looked, bloodshot and bleary eyes glancing at Thomas. Thomas nodded solemnly, and held his hands out praying that George might come back out to him. 

He did. 

George crawled on his hands and knees, filthy, and Thomas took him up at once. There, on the floor by a linen cupboard, Thomas cradled George to his chest like he might his own son and wrapped him up tight in his arms so that George could cry into his chest. Muffled by Thomas’ vest, George’s howls turned into muted whimpers till they ceased entirely- through it all Thomas never stopped rocking him. 

“I cannot stay a nanny.” Thomas whispered into George’s hair, “I have to be a butler. That’s what your grandfather wants, and he runs the house. We have to respect his wishes, George. He’s the Earl. I am his servant. That’s the way these things go. It is the laws of our land and time… but through it all I have always, will always love you. I loved you from the very moment you were born. You are my favorite. No matter what I tell the others… you are my favorite.” 

George stilled, breathing slowly, he sucked a bit at his thumb, a nervous habit in times of stress, and closed his eyes as Thomas held him to his chest. 

“Will you still love me?” George asked from around his thumb. Thomas kissed his forehead again. 

“I’ll always love you.” He assured him, “And we’ll have no more of these tears.” He paused to let go of George and wipe at his face, using his handkerchief till George’s face was clean of tears and mucus. “You are richer than every man I know put together, you have nothing to cry about.” He tried to joke. George sniffed, unsure. “You’ve a mother that loves you, a house that supports you, and a warm plate to eat from for the rest of your life. What more could you need?” 

George looked solemnly up, eyes bleary. “You.” He whispered. 

Thomas’ heart bleated in pain. 

“…And you have me, George.” Thomas whispered, forcing himself not to be an emotional blubbering mess in front of a child. “So no more tears.” 

George nodded, silent, and Thomas kissed him again for good measure. 

 

It took hardly any trouble at all to put George back to bed. He returned to the nursery, bid goodnight to Bates who’d put William down in his crib, and shut the playroom door so that the children could go to bed. As Thomas lay George back into bed, he pulled the covers up over his chest and kissed him goodnight, rubbing George’s back until soft little snores uttered from his mouth. 

Content, Thomas rose up and returned to his room to take off his tie and vest. He washed up for the night, rubbing his face clean in cool water and observing his reflection in the mirror. It was near midnight and he was exhausted. He would get very little sleep tonight. 

Yet before he could go to bed, he felt compelled to pull out the ouija board. It was a full moon after all, and with him being butler his schedule was about to take a major shift. It was likely he wouldn’t get more than four hours of sleep a night, if even that… and maybe after the rough couple of days he’d had he wanted to talk to Edward again. 

So Thomas pulled out the ouija board from underneath his bed, creeping into the nursery washroom to light a candle with his sliver lighter and place everything upon the floor. He sat the ouija board in a spot of moonlight, taking advantage of the high windows so that, even without the candle, he could see the letters well and read the messages clearly. He took a deep, steadying breath, and pushed the planchette lightly around the board one time. 

It was ill advised to attempt this alone… but at this point he had no choice. It wasn’t like he could drag anyone out of their sleep to join him, and even if he could he didn’t want to. This was a private adventure. 

“We are now beginning.” Thomas spoke softly into the dark, for some reason focusing upon the candle before him, “I am calling out to anyone listening. Is someone there?” 

He waited in silence, senses tuned intently.  
And nearly had a heart attack when a tiny voice spoke up in the dark. 

“Me.” 

Thomas jumped, hand flying to his heart as he fell over and scrambled at the tile beneath him. So intent had he been upon the board that the noise of someone speaking had been like seeing a spectre in the physical and Thomas had to take several calming breathes as he looked around to see, of all people, Sybbie at him from the door with her doll clutched to her front. She watched him curiously. 

“Sybbie!” Thomas hissed her name, staggering up. “What on earth are you doing, come with me-“ He picked her up at once and took her from the room. 

He did not see nor hear the planchette twitching upon the board. Was obliviously to the way it rattled violently, angry at being left alone. 

Thomas took Sybbie back to her bed at once, yet even as he sat her down upon the mattress she kicked her little legs, intent upon staying up- “What were you doing?” she asked. 

“Never you mind.” Thomas mumbled, “I was cleaning. You need to go to bed-“ He tried to pull her covers up over her legs but she kicked them off. 

“Don’t lie.” She commanded him. Thomas froze, eyes wide as he caught her gaze. She stared at him intently; it was quite an intimidating moment… to be caught in a lie by such an honest child when he was a grown man. 

“Daddy says you lie sometimes when you’re sad. Don’t be sad.” She urged. 

_Fuck you, Tom_ , Thomas thought, pursing his lips as he patted Sybbie’s legs. 

“… I was talking to someone.” Thomas whispered softly. “Someone who can’t talk back normally.” 

“Why can’t they talk normally?” Sybbie asked. 

Thomas rubbed his weary eyes, laying his elbows upon her bed and burrying his head in his hands. 

“Because he’s dead.” Thomas finally admitted. 

 

If asked by someone in the future why on earth he’d agreed to let two children under the age of ten play with an ouija board, he’d have claimed temporary insanity. 

As it stood, Sybbie had begged and George had woke up and then started begging too. Thomas didn’t want William to wake up and frankly he wanted to get on with the session. 

So it seemed he was going to hell for this. 

“Now.” Thomas murmured, Sybbie and George both comfortable upon his lap and his arms around them both. They each had a finger upon the planchette, waiting patiently, “We push it in a circle three time. One…” Around it went, “Two,” around again, “Three” they stopped. “And we say…?” 

“Is someone there?” Sybbie called out, taking charge. Silence greeted her timid voice. 

“And now we wait.” Thomas whispered in their ears. All that could be heard were their tiny panting breathes. “We do not touch the planchette any more than we must. Very lightly, with just the tips of our fingers. The ghosts will do the rest.” 

Jesus Christ what the literal hell was he doing? 

After consoling George in the closet, Thomas had come to the firm opinion that he ought to show George as much love as possible. The boy ruled him with a rod of iron, so when he’d said ‘Can I join you’ Thomas had felt no choice but to agree. Sybbie had just egged him on and now all three of them were upon the bathroom floor in their housecoats, a lone candle lighting the Ouija board and a full moon streaming in. If word ever got out about this, Thomas was certain Lord Grantham would drag him out into the back yard and beat him with Champion’s horse whip. His friendship with Tom would likewise be put in jeopardy, a thought that made his stomach clench. God only knows what Lady Mary would think. 

The children sat quiet, patient, waiting on tenterhooks to see what the ghosts would say.   
Then, after about ten minutes of absolute silence, the planchette began to twitch beneath their fingers and move towards the word ‘hello’. George gasped, amazed, but did not remove his finger. 

“Yes…” Thomas whispered softly, “Someone is here.” 

“Who?” George asked, amazed. 

The planchette at once took off, flitting over the alphabet in a smooth but steady speed. 

“W-e-t-w-o” Thomas spelt out, “We two” He looked to both Sybbie and George who were staring up at him agog. In that moment he seemed akin to god, controlling the universe at his touch. It was like someone had declared him Merlin. “So there’s two people here.” He explained, “Let’s see who.” He gazed at the board, speaking softly, “What are your names?” 

But instead of spelling long illustrious names, the planchette moved to ’s’ and then to ‘m’. “S. M.” Thomas thought, trying to conjure up deceased men or women who made have such initials. Given that the ouija had declared there were two people here, perhaps the names respectively were ’S’ and ‘M’. But that wasn’t a lot of information to go on. “S…M…” Thomas pondered aloud, pausing to hum as he thought with narrowed eyes. He’d have to slim down the pool a bit to catch their fish. “Are you Crawley’s?” 

The planchette moved swiftly to ‘yes’, and Thomas nodded, thinking. Dead Crawley’s could make for quite a long list (save for the Dowager who would never die). It could be everyone from the late Earl to…

Thomas sucked in a breath, a thought dawning on him as he stared Sybbie and then George. 

“Have you been dead long?” Sybbie asked, curious. The planchette slid to ‘no’ after a second. 

“Oh god…” Thomas whispered. 

S. M. Both Crawley’s who hand’t been dead long? Jesus he’d have to be blind deaf and stupid not to get those signals, and now felt horribly guilty for allowing George and Sybbie to play with an ouija board. How could he explain to them who was here before them, speaking to them through the planchette? 

_“Children will one day be grown… and must therefor be treated as an adult in order to come to terms with the full hardships of reality- avoiding the complications and fears of the growing years.”_ Nanny Armstrong had said. 

 

He breathed out slowly and tightened his hold around Sybbie and George in his lap. 

“Is this Sybil and Matthew?” Thomas asked, incredibly nervous. The planchette wasted no time in confirming his fears, sliding at once to ‘yes’. He breathed out again, feeling like the worlds biggest bastard as he bowed his head. 

“Who are Sybil and Matthew?” Sybbie asked, curious. 

“… Your mother.” Thomas mumbled, “And George’s father.” 

The children looked up at him, silent. Their eyes were wide but without fear, glazed as they sunk in the new knowledge and turned their gaze back to the ouija board. Thomas suddenly wanted to apologize, to hide them in their room and shut the ouija out of sight forever to keep from causing them pain. 

“…Mummy?” Sybbie called out.   
“Da?” George added. 

The planchette, still upon yes, made an odd jiggling move both up and down. 

“This was a bad idea.” Thomas whispered. He scooped the children up at once, breaking their connection with the planchette and holding them tight to his chest. A sudden cold feeling swept through the room, gutting the candle so that they were plunged into darkness. George hitched a breath, clutching to Thomas’ chest, and Thomas held them tight to keep evil spirits at bay. The ouija board was displeased, a strange scratching sound emitting from the ancient wood as the planchette (with all the force of a cement mixer) slowly slid across the board to the word ‘no’. 

He didn’t like this, this feeling of being out of control, and his anxiety was only heightened as he realized that he was no effectively the last line of defense between two innocent children and the horrors of the world beyond. Thomas had been to that land, had seen it briefly as he lay waiting to die in a bathtub full of blood, and knew full well the horrors of being dragged about by demons in icy hands. He saw himself then and there, wrestling with an angry hoard to defend Sybbie and George from being dragged off, and suddenly wanted to chuck the ouija board into a fire if it meant preserving their innocence. When it was him alone, it was a game he could play with courage. But now that he stood to lose something he cherished, Thomas felt terrified and wanted nothing to do with it. 

“…They’re just children.” Thomas whispered, “Let them be.” 

The planchette was struggling, unable to move swiftly without human touch, but Thomas watched it anyways as it began to slide about the waved wood at a snails pace. 

T-H-A-N-K-Y-O-U It finally spelt out. 

“For what?” Thomas asked, “For traumatizing your children? For putting myself in incredible danger once their grandfather finds out what I’ve done-?” 

But the planchette would not stay still. It was trembling, rattling against the wood as if it could not decide where to go or what to say. After a moment of hesitation it finally shifted again, once more crawling across the board to spell one simple, lonely word: L-O-V-E. 

In his arms, Sybbie and George stared at the board transfixed. Neither were as frightened as he. Maybe in their innocence they were protected; maybe as children they knew something he did not. 

“What does it say?” Sybbie whispered, for neither of them could read. 

“It says ‘love’.” Thomas finally answered. 

“What does it mean?” George asked. 

“It means they love you very very much.” Thomas did not want to comprehend the full extent of the message, to imagine Sybil and Matthew Crawley bent over an old Ouija board desperately trying to talk to their children from beyond the mortal coil. “And it’s time to go to bed.” 

Tentatively, with a mourning atmosphere, the planchette finally slid to ‘yes’. Encouraged, Thomas let out another steadying breath and said, “Say thank you and goodbye to the ghosts.” 

It was only proper. It was only right. 

“Thank you.” Sybbie whispered to the night air, still crawled tight in Thomas’ lap, “Goodbye Mummy.” 

“Goodbye daddy.” George said. 

 

For a moment, the three of them stared at the planchette as if waiting for it to make another move. 

But it remained as still and cold as the candle that had been gutted. The only thing that remained of their walk with the dead was a thin trickle of acrid smoke drifting up in the air as the wax cooled. 

It was with great relief that Thomas shepherded the children back to bed. 

 

~*~

Just down the hall, oblivious to the comings and goings of the nursery bathroom, Tom Branson lay in bed with his fire died down, wondering at his new erotic picture. 

Really it wasn’t all that scandalous. He’d seen some wild women back in Ireland and this was much more demure. Much more English. Thomas looked nervous, probably had not wanted to get undressed for a stranger, and clung to his frontal sheet for dear life even as he offered the viewer a shocking view of his naked back and the swell of his rump. Tom could not deny the beauty in him, in the alluring posture or how he so desperately wanted to see what lay beyond that sheet. 

Thomas had a way of being incredibly enticing without being whorish. Tom had noticed it when shopping with him for Christmas gifts- had seen it in the way his eyes had lit up with longing over Baxter’s potential necklace and how he’d reached out to grab Tom’s hat even when it flew from his head. He’d be lying if he claimed he hadn’t felt Thomas’ body beneath his hands when he’d yanked Thomas back into the car. Thomas was supple and smooth, far from muscled but still firm from a life in servitude. As he’d sat in Tom’s lap, trying to keep from flying out of the car and into a snowy pasture, Tom had registered the swell of Thomas’ backside. 

He was lithe, light, incredibly attractive. Given six hours in London’s clubs he’d have men hanging off of every appendage begging for a roll in the hay. 

Tom could not deny he was growing inspired as he lay looking at Thomas’ erotic picture. The fire burned low in his hearth, filling his room with a soft heat and a dulled light. The curtains on his four chamber bed offered him privacy, solitude as he pondered his little prize and what to do with it. Robert had advised to burn it, but that would be a tragedy. His loins stirred as his imagination conjured up wild fantasies. Of Thomas sitting on this very bed, naked but for the sheet that would be clutched to his front as Tom surveyed him and urged him to let his guard down. Maybe he’d ply Thomas with a bite of whiskey to loosen him up, never taking him father than he wanted to go (of course) but also not wanting him to be nervous. Thomas would sip his whiskey like he sipped his beer, enjoying every drop. A heady aroma would envelop them both as Thomas would shed his clothes but keep his back to Tom. Tom could see it now, his hips and arse finally revealed as he dropped his trousers and pants. He’d want Thomas to turn around, to show him his beautiful body, but Thomas would do no such thing. He’d instead snatch up Tom’s sheets and clutch them to his front, slipping into Tom’s bed and bowing his head in fear. 

Even with whiskey he’d be nervous. Meek. Virtuous. 

 

Tom let out a huff. His cock was hard now, raging with blood beneath his pants. He licked his lips, taking steadying breaths trying to calm himself. 

But it was no use. The fantasy in his head was cemented like an ancient tree refusing to give sway to the winds of reason. 

 

This picture had been meant for pleasure.   
So let pleasure be had. 

Tom reached a hand beneath his sheets and slipped into his pants. He squeezed his cock, breathing slowly to prolong his sensitivity as he gazed deeply into the picture propped against his duvet. 

Those hooded eyes, those swollen lips, his demure expression… Thomas was the vision of lust wrapped in a sheet of innocent intentions. Tom could picture him now, sitting upon a king sized bed in soft cotton sheets, hiding his front and sitting upon his legs so that the balls of his small feet delicately balanced against his plump arse. 

_“Drop your sheet.” Tom might whisper, urging for confidence. But Thomas would be fretful, unsure of himself. He’d think Tom would judge him even in that fragile moment, so Tom would try and get him to relax._

_“Fuck yourself.”_ Tom would offer, _“On you fingers. Let me watch.”_

_Thomas would take his fingers one after another into his pert mouth, sucking tenderly upon the slim digits till they were nice and coated with his saliva. Then he’d spread his legs a bit, still perched upon the balls of his feet and refusing to drop his sheet. Now Tom would be able to see his center, a tight pink ring- Thomas would drop his soaking hand, bring it around back, and slowly push the first finger in with a small sweet moan of pleasure._

Tom hitched a breath, hand pumping faster. His cock was swelling now; his eyes were closed, no longer looking at the picture upon his duvet. Instead he was captured by a fantasy. 

_Thomas would pant and whine, tongue darting out to wet his lips as one finger became two, then three. He would fuck himself to the knuckle for Tom to see, but still not dropping that sheet._

“Come on baby-“ Tom whispered aloud, squeezing his hand tighter. “Come on, show me what you’ve got-“ 

_“Tom…” Thomas would whimper, unsatisfied by his fingers alone, “Please… Oh please.. Give it to me-“_

“Give you what?” Tom dared, cock throbbing-

_“Give me your cock-“ Thomas moaned, desperate to be filled-_

Tom came, hissing and clenching his teeth tight to keep from making a sound as his hand was suddenly covered with his release. He exhaled slowly, amazed at his sensation as he re opened his eyes and looked left to see his picture. In the afterglow it seemed almost sweet instead of sinful, no longer a picture meant for pleasure so much as adoration. There could be no denying that Thomas Barrow was beautiful. That he was meant to be worshiped as such. Tom reached out and gently stroked the paper edges of his photograph. 

_“Tom…”_ Thomas whispered in his head. _“Please…”_

Careful not to soil the photograph with his dirtied hand, Tom cleaned himself with a handkerchief and pulled Thomas’ picture close, hiding it beneath his pillow so that it could be kept secret and safe from the world. 

Whatever implications could be made about pleasuring himself to a picture of a man, Tom would leave them till morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading. I hope you are continuing to enjoy the story. Please review if you feel the urge, I always enjoy reading them.


	10. Mother Sees All

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Dowager is of the firm belief that the working class should not read.   
> If only Thomas had held to such a notion, he might have suffered less.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright everyone we're about half way through the story. Things are about to pick up wildly. Hang on as best you can. Thank you so much to everyone who is reading and reviewing. I hope you continue to enjoy the story.

Nanny Armstrong ruled the children with an iron fist, but as far as Thomas was aware, that fist never connected with either of the children’s faces. 

He kept tabs on Armstrong though he wondered if she knew. Sybbie would find him during the middle of the day and whisper things in his ear, telling him that Armstrong had changed the soap they bathed with or had put Marigold’s crib in the attic. That she had instead brought down a rocking cradle that had apparently belonged to Lady Mary in her infancy and put William in that instead. She focused on manners and responsibilities, forcing the children to pick up the room and showing them how to bathe and dress themselves. She did not, however, let them pick out their clothes and refused to let Sybbie wear her green dress about the house even during play time. Sybbie could wear it in the nursery but no where else, much to Sybbie’s disappointment. 

This was far from the only change in regiment. The children had been spoiled underneath his care, or so Nanny Armstrong proclaimed. He’d protected them from every pain and so had made them strangers to pain which did not suit her iron tastes as she forced them to swallow spoonfuls of bitter medicine. Worst of all, she started Sybbie in a corset- a soft fleshy thing though it still constricted her breathing- and made playing with George almost impossible so that she began to sit often and instead worked on drawing or needlepoint. As Thomas served her tea in the library or brought her books from the study, he watched her look out the window and sigh in dismay. 

_The heart dies a slow death_ , he thought somberly. He had never wanted this for his little cherub. 

Downstairs, Thomas received as little reprieve as Sybbie. Suddenly he was occupied at all hours by Carson at his elbow, who demanded to watch every move Thomas made if only to inform him of small errors or helpful tips. The role of the butler was one of paperwork, pomp and pressure. Thomas was back to hawking the hallways, watching Andy and the lone hall boy like he was their errant father while they ran about doing tasks and kept the house up to speed. The real trouble could be found in the maids and in the garden staff, both of whom had less respect for Thomas and didn’t care for decorum. He trusted Mrs. Hughes with the maids, for she ruled them with an iron fist, and when it came to the gardeners he simply allowed Carson to rule rip-shod. The rest came with patience. 

Thomas was acquainted with both the finer jewelry cases, the wine cellar, the most eloquent of silver states, the gun cabinet, and most importantly of all the treasury. These were held with three sets of keys, not to mention a rolling pin lock, and Thomas kept both in memory at all times as he observed the state of the abbey. It was no where near the wealth of its youth, but it was still an enormous sum and surprised Thomas as Carson showed him how to keep everything in detailed inventory- how to ensure there was no theft among the numbers and how to spot possible upcoming depressions in the sums. But Thomas knew best- this wasn’t a game of checks and balances… this was a game of loyalty and watching for weak links in the staff. In particular, Peter the lone hall boy who would be the most obvious candidate to steal wine or make off with money when he was paid the least and worked the hardest. 

He told none of this to Mr. Carson, who would surely be scandalized if he knew, and instead focused on learning the _precious sacred perfect art_ of decanting wine. 

 

“Go as slow as you please, you’re in no rush.” Carson murmured softly in his ear, watching Thomas carefully as he decanted a pinot grigio. For whatever reason, they were not using the wine cradle; everything had to be done by hand, with utmost care. Carson’s palsy became incredibly obvious in moments like these, where the mere tremble of a hand could bring ruin to a meal. 

“Why don’t we use the cradle?” Thomas murmured. It was after noon, and the servants were taking their tea while the family relaxed in the library. He thought longingly of the children, of holding them and feeling their love soak through his skin to warm his heart. In the cold of Carson’s office, he felt like an ice had settled onto his bones. 

“The cradle is only for red wines, which have more sediment and need a steadier hand.” Carson supplied. “You can go as you please with a white.” 

Thomas wondered how long he'd been using the cradle to get by with decanting- if his hands had been shaking for years and no one had been watching close enough to tell. It felt rather like cheating, particularly when Thomas himself had come so close to losing everything in the house only months ago. Yet instead of feeling jealousy or irritation, he only felt pity. Carson had served the Crawley’s for so long, he did not know how to stop serving. 

And that was a sorry place to be. 

There came a knock upon Carson’s office door, and both men looked up to see Nanny Armstrong upon the threshold. 

“Nanny Armstrong.” Thomas greeted her, straightening up and setting the half-decanted bottle down. 

“I hope I haven’t interrupted?” She asked, glancing from the wine bottle to Thomas. 

“Not at all.” Thomas said, but before he could offer her a seat or sit down himself, Carson sat down in his chair and swept a hand to Nanny Armstrong. Thomas was left high and dry, standing alone at the desk as Nanny Armstrong took her seat across from them. 

“A house with two butlers.” She tutted, straightening her sleeve as she spoke, “It’s most unusual but then I suppose it’s all hands to the pump.” 

“Indeed.” Carson grumbled with a twitch of his bushy eyebrows. 

“Lady Sybil has requested to dine with her family tonight.” Nanny Armstrong said. Both Thomas and Carson grimaced, the name an unpleasant reminder to a painful death. 

“You are confused, Nanny Armstrong.” Carson grumbled from his swivel chair, “Lady Sybil is dead.” 

Without missing a beat, she challenged, “I am referring to Sybil Branson. She is a Lady, is she not?” 

Carson shifted in his chair, looking horribly pleased thought Thomas couldn’t say why. He looked from Thomas to Nanny Armstrong, eyebrows raised in mused delight. Thomas gently ran his thumb around the wet lip of the wine bottle, thinking carefully. Sybbie was only six. Precautions had to be taken. 

“She wants to dine downstairs?” Thomas asked, thinking of the stiff chairs and the high table. Would Sybbie be able to endure it all? 

“Indeed.” Nanny Armstrong agreed, “Naturally I will leave it to you to inform his lordship.” 

“Very good, Nanny Armstrong.” Carson said, dismissing her with the wave of a hand, “You may go.” 

“Mr. Carson, Mr. Barrow.” She said, rising up from her chair and exiting without another word. It was a mark of how well she knew her stride that she could close the door without making a sound. 

“I admire your tastes, Thomas!” Carson grumbled. Thomas shot him a disgruntled look, taking up the wine bottle again and resuming his decanting, “Here is a nanny that will raise children of kings.” 

“Mmm.” Thomas did not comment to the negative or positive. He knew nothing of Armstrong and as of yet had not formed an opinion on her. 

He’d sworn to himself that the moment Sybbie said the word, he’d take her out at the knees. 

 

He headed upstairs, ears pricked for the sounds of Lord Grantham as he entered the main hall through the green baize door and made a bee line for the library. Halfway there he was greeted by Tom coming down the stairs, hat in hand and clearly on his way for a walk into the village. Thomas did not even bother to greet him, merely skipping straight into conversation as he said, “Sybbie wants to eat downstairs with the family tonight.” 

“What a step!” Tom looked delighted at the thought, beaming as he twirled his hat in his hands. 

“I’m about to tell his lordship.” Thomas said. 

“He’s in the small library.” Tom said, “I can’t wait!” and with that he was off, tugging a bit at Thomas’ elbow as he past with friendly fingers. He bounced on the balls of his feet, humming; someone was in a good mood. 

Amused, Thomas resumed chase to the small library, opening the door to find both Lord and Lady Grantham taking tea with Andy watching over. At Thomas’ arrival, Andy stiffened imperceptibly and Lord Grantham sat down his tea cup. 

“Barrow!” He greeted him, “All going well I trust?” 

“Very well, your lordship.” Thomas replied smoothly with the smallest bow of his head. Was it just his imagination or did Lord Grantham have a twinkle of amusement in his eye, “I was just approached by the new nanny Mrs. Armstrong. She told me that Miss Sybbie wants to dine downstairs with the family tonight.” 

Lady Grantham clapped her hands together, eyes sparkling with delight, “How marvelous!” She said “Well we must set a plate for her.” 

“I can hardly wait!” Lord Grantham echoed Tom’s sentiments, chuffed as he picked pack up his tea cup. 

“Very good, your ladyship. M’lord.” Thomas said, and at once he bowed himself out. 

 

He spent the rest of the afternoon changing dinner plans with both Mrs. Patmore and Lady Grantham, sneaking in a spot for Sybbie at the table and making sure the dinner would not be beyond her taste palate. Mrs. Patmore went out of her way to ensure Sybbie would eat well- making her a small cup of strawberries and fresh cream instead of Eton Mess for desert and cutting her chicken so that it would be small enough to not overwhelm her. 

After the servant’s tea, Thomas returned back upstairs with his clipboard in hand, determined to set Sybbie somewhere in the table that would most benefit her. The family would be dining tonight with both the Dowager and Lord and Lady Merton. Typically a party would be sat man to women, but Sybbie now made that impossible. Thomas decided that the best point of action would be to put her in between Lady Grantham and Tom, across the table from the Dowager. If that didn’t keep her in line, nothing else would. Andy was pulled away from helping Thomas set the table by Nanny Armstrong who wanted to modify Sybbie’s chair. This was good sense, because frankly the girl wouldn’t be able to reach the table with her short stature. Left to his own devices, Thomas worked twice as fast to set the places and add the finishing touches to the tables. He was just finished with the candelabras when Tom entered, jacket and hat gone- slightly flushed from the bitter cold of the January wind. 

“Where are you putting her?” Tom asked, coming around the table so that he and Thomas were side by side. He leaned in, looking over Thomas’ shoulder to observe his clipboard of seatings. 

“Between you and her grandmother.” Thomas said. Tom nodded as he spoke, “I figure that will be the best way to keep her in line. The Dowager and Mrs. Crawley are coming… rather, Lady Merton. Also Lord Merton. We’re quite a party tonight.” 

“Where’s Sybbie’s chair?” Tom asked, for sure enough there as an empty space between his own chair and Lady Grantham’s. He drummed his fingers on the back of his own chair, a soft rhythmic beat in the gentle silence. 

“The nanny wanted to modify it.” Thomas mused, not really looking at Tom as he spoke. Tom wouldn’t mind, he was sure. Tom knew how busy he was. “Probably so that she could reach the table.” 

Yet even as Thomas straightened Tom’s placemat, he caught Tom’s eye; Tom was watching him intensely, a smirk curling at his smooth lips as he tilted his head and watched Thomas work. 

“…What?” Thomas asked, curious. 

“You.” Was Tom’s only answer. 

Thomas snorted, and resumed work. Yet even as he straightened a card setting, Tom reached out and ever so gently touched a lock of hair normally tucked neatly behind his ear. It had fallen loose, hanging down slightly so that one could see just how long his hair was. 

“Your hair is getting long.” Tom mused. He gently put it back into place, behind Thomas’ ear. 

Thomas stared at him, shocked by the intimacy of the gestures. He’d never been close mates with another man before. God forbid he’d ever touched a lock of Jimmy’s hair. Jimmy probably would have panicked or pulled away. It was nice to not be afraid… to just relax and allow another man to touch him without worrying for what would inevitably come next. 

“Yeah, I guess so.” Thomas mused, his Stockport accent slipping a bit. “Y’don’t think it’s odd?” 

“No.” Tom assured him, “You look good with long hair. I’d like to see it without all of that… stuff… in it.” Tom gestured at his own hair as he spoke. Thomas grinned. 

“S’kind of unruly t’be honest.” Thomas admitted.

“Well I think you look fine!” Tom declared. Thomas caught his eye again, unsure of what that meant. Did he mean ‘fine’ as if, ‘you look okay’ or ‘fine’ as in ‘handsome’. Damn the English language. Before Thomas could ask Tom to clarify, however, the door to the dining hall was pushed open by Andy, walking backward and carrying a chair that was- for whatever reason- boasting a frightening addition of knives that were held to the spine by a leather belt. It looked like a method of torture from the inquisition, and Andy seemed to be visibly sweating from nerves as he set the chair down between Tom and Thomas and pushed it up to the table. Thomas stopped him with a hard hand, scooting the chair back to observe it better- were these knives from the kitchen? With sleek black handles and screws to keep them to the belt, Thomas had never seen them before in his life. 

“What on earth is this?” Thomas demanded, agog. 

“An instrument of torture?” Tom wisely supplied, looking to Andy for an answer. Underneath both men’s stairs, Andy seemed to wilt even more, backing up a bit till he hit the buffet table behind him. 

“It’s.. Miss Sybbie’s chair, Mr. Barrow.” Andy finally stuttered out. 

“What?” Thomas laughed; surely this was all a clever joke. 

Andy swallowed, sweating profusely. He ran a hand through his hair, palm glistening with perspiration: “Nanny Armstrong told me to put her knife belt on the spine of the chair so that Miss Sybbie would be made to sit up… straight…?” He whimpered, his voice trailing away till absolutely nothing was left. 

Thomas and Tom stared at him, both silent.   
Then, as one, they made for the hall. 

Thomas reached the door first and knocked it open as both he and Tom stormed across the main hall and took to the gallery stairs. They passed Lady Grantham who was no doubt coming to check up on progress in the dining hall. 

“Tom!” Lady Grantham was shocked at the obvious outrage upon their faces. 

“In a minute!” Tom snapped angrily, rounding the landing and hitting the gallery floor. Elbow to elbow, neck to neck, Tom and Thomas crossed the hall to the play room and pushed the door open hard to Sybbie upon a step stool being hemmed into a lovely violent gown by Anna with Lady Mary watching over the whole affair and George upon lap, slightly sulky. Nanny Armstrong observed Sybbie in a floor length mirror, bouncing little William upon her hip. 

No, there would none of that. 

Without warning, without explanation, Thomas reached out and grabbed William right out of Nanny Armstrong’s hands, eyes blazing with rage as he clutched the infant to his chest. God only knows what horrors she had inflicted upon him too-! 

“Mr. Barrow-!” Nanny Armstrong was taken aback; Anna paused in her hemming, ever aware of the danger signs with Thomas. Lady Mary watched the display, her eyes upon Tom who was all but trembling with anger. 

“I told you!” He spat, a vindictive finger in Nanny Armstrong’s shocked face, “I told you if I ever got wind you were hurting the children I’d have you out of this house!” 

“Knives on her chair!?” Tom could hardly believe his words, “Are you crazy?!” 

Nanny Armstrong went from shocked to irritated at once, scowling as she crossed her arms over her chest. Upon his mother’s lap, George watched the entire display in awe. He’d never seen Thomas so mad before! 

“Mr. Branson.” Nanny Armstrong drawled, “The tactics that I use have been in method for centuries-“ 

“So was the Spanish Inquisition!” Tom cut her off, “But no one wants that back!” 

“I don’t understand.” Lady Mary spoke up, “What’s going on?” 

“The nanny has taken it upon herself to put knives on the spine of Miss Sybbie’s chair to force her to sit up straight or bleed!” Thomas hissed. Upon her foot stool, Sybbie went pale with fright, “And if you think I’m going to allow it, you’re mad!” 

Lady Mary’s mouth opened in the smallest of ‘o’s, eyes wide as her brown eyes trailed from Tom, to Thomas, to the nanny. 

Anna said absolutely nothing, completely still with several pins sticking out of her mouth. 

“You put the children in my care-“ Nanny Armstrong reminded him defiantly. 

“With a very firm warning-!” Thomas snapped. 

“A threat more like-“ 

“And not an empty one at that!” Thomas cut across. It seemed he would have to pull rank and so be it, “I am the butler, I have the final say over the staff. The knives come off the chair-!” 

“She’ll slouch in her seat, that’s hardly becoming of a lady-!” The nanny protested. Thomas would hear no more of it, clutching William tightly to his chest. 

“She will not!” He spat. Had she ever slouched when Thomas had dined with her in the playroom? He thought not! 

“You are deluded by your love for her-“ The nanny warned, but she was sailing dangerously close to the window as far as he was concerned. 

“He’s strengthened by it!” Tom argued, just as mad as he, “Sybbie-“ He turned to his daughter, “Will you sit up straight in your chair?” She nodded vigorously at her father’s command, Very good. You slouch, you leave the table. You sit up straight, you can stay. Yes?” 

“Yes, papa.” She replied meekly. 

“Then we’re done here!” Tom declared, taking the playroom door in hand and opening it back up to step out into the hall. Thomas followed after him, or tried to until Nanny Armstrong reached out to try and take little William from him. Thomas pulled back forcibly. 

“Give me back the baby-“ Nanny Armstrong demanded. 

“No.” Thomas snapped, “I don’t want you touching him. He’s far too precious to me. You can have him back when you’ve earned back my trust.” 

Anna dropped some of the pins from her mouth, shocked. 

He left the playroom, rocking William who gurgled softly into his livery and looked up at him curiously. He recognized Thomas’ face and was not alarmed, but he certainly didn’t understand what all this hullabaloo was about. Why all the shouting? Why all the marching? 

“Well you certainly told her.” Tom said warmly as they took to the stairs. The descended carefully, for too quick a pace would jar the baby that Thomas now held. 

“Knives on her chair!” He seethed, cupping William’s head with his hand, “I could strangle her!” 

William seemed to realize a fight was afoot. His gurgle turned into a high pitched whimper. 

“Shh-“ Thomas murmured in his ear, patting his back soothingly as they reached the base of the stairs. “Shh.” 

“You have to get back to it.” Tom mused, “Let me take him.” 

Thomas happily handed the baby over, for if there was anyone he trusted it was Tom. Tom was happy to take him, jiggling him a bit till William gurgled and broke into an odd soft grin. 

“Hallo there!” Tom said, his voice stretched to sooth, “Hallo!” William blinked up at him, slightly confused as to why Tom was talking to him in such a weird way. 

William was far too smart for such nonsense. 

“I’m glad to know you trust me.” Tom joked. Thomas shook his head in dismay, looking back up the gallery stairs. No doubt Carson would ream him later, but he’d deal with that when the time came. 

“I always trusted you.” Thomas admitted, but even as he spoke he frowned, thinking of how he’d so nearly confessed his suicide attempts to Tom over New Years. What would Tom have said? He could not help but wonder. Would he have tried to lift Thomas’ spirits with a dry joke or would he have been consoling? It was difficult to say. Tom was not a surface-level man. 

“I hope you’re feeling happier?” 

“Not really.” Thomas admitted. Even with a promotion it was difficult for him to feel joy, “It’s hard to explain.” 

“Does this have something to do with what we talked about over New Years?” Tom asked. 

“In a way.” Thomas did not allude to more, hoping Tom would have the good sense to drop it. 

“… Will you tell me more about it?” Tom prompted gently. Thomas shrugged, not meeting his eye. 

“Not now.” He said, for this wasn’t the time or the place with a large dinner party going on tonight. He needed his wits about him, and the reliable servant’s blank. “But one day, yes.” He just couldn’t say when that day would be. He had a feeling that when the time was right, he’d know. 

“I’ll hold you to it.” Tom said with a loping grace. 

Ever since New Years, Tom had begun to treat him differently. Thomas had noticed it in the softened way that he spoke, the comical light in his eyes or how he was always so damn familiar. In truth, it made him very happy for he’d often longed for a bosom friend. But he still wanted to know why. Why had Tom decided to give him a second chance? Why had Tom not brought up Ms. Bunting or any of the other scuffle in their past? 

“…Tom.” Thomas asked, “Why… Why are you so invested in me? When… before I…” Thomas shook his head, “I was-“ but need he even go on. There were ten thousand words to describe his personality and none of them were pleasant. He had a feeling violent horses and cactuses got a better reception than him. 

Tom gave him a small smile, reaching out to cup his shoulder. His hand was heavy and warm upon Thomas’ livery and flesh. 

“I know you were angry at me for stepping out after Sybil.” Tom admitted softly. “In truth I was angry too. I realized that, despite liking Sarah very much, it would never lead anywhere because she was so rude to the family- to my family.” Tom corrected. “I was captivated by her revolutionary spirit until I realized the price it came at.” 

“And what was that?” 

“Loss of self.” Tom said, and then he wisely added, “Y’can never lose yourself, Thomas. Identity, knowing who you truly are and what you stand for, it’s the most important thing in the world. The most beautiful.” 

“I quite agree.” Thomas said. Tom grinned. “But I have knives to unstrap.” 

“Onward, ho.” 

 

Somehow, out of his range of sight, William eventually made his way back up to the nursery and into Nanny Armstrong’s arms. She was incredibly displeased with him, though she kept her lips pursed shut and said absolutely nothing when he came to collect Sybbie and take her down to dinner. Anna followed dutifully behind, still making last minute alterations to her dress as she walked. It was a hobble skirt of deepest plum with sheer sleeves that came down to her elbows In little white shoes with pearls at her neck, she looked a sight out of 1890, and beamed as she took both Thomas and Anna’s hands to walk. They lead her down the main stairs, towards the sitting room where everyone was gathered for pre-dinner cocktails served dutifully by Andy. Thomas paused before opening the door, dropping down to a knee to (out of habit) help her in her dress. Sybbie scratched a bit at the back of her neck, and Thomas noticed her skin was flushed red from where she’d scratched herself with her nails. 

“Do you itch?” He murmured, and she nodded, pointing to her flushed neck. 

“A little.” 

“Show me where.” He pulled at the collar of her dress, flipping it to see if there was perhaps a loose thread- but Anna batted his hands away, careful that he didn’t tear her design. 

“Don’t pull at her dress-!” She warned. “It took afternoon all day to modify it.” 

“It’s itching her-“ He protested. Anna shook her head, batting his hands away again as she took out a small pair of scissors from her dress pocket and pointed to the sitting room door. 

“Go introduce her at the door, Mr. Barrow.” Anna grumbled, snipping at Sybbie’s dress to ease her pain. Miffed, Thomas straightened up, pulling at the bottom of his vest to ease wrinkles from his livery; he opened the door to the sitting room, stepping aside so that everyone inside could see Sybbie in her plum hobble gown. 

“Lady Sybil Branson.” He declared. She entered, beaming, and everyone burst into a round of cooing like doves in a cage. Even the Dowager looked pleased from her spot on the couch, neck warbling as she tilted her head left and right to observe her great granddaughter. Lord and Lady Merton beamed, catching each other’s eyes.

Tom had been sitting upon the couch but immediately stood up, grinning as saw his daughter in an elegant dress for the first time. 

“Darling, look at your dress!” Lady Grantham beamed from the couch opposite of Tom, a cocktail in hand and face flushed with pride, “You’re so beautiful!” 

Sybbie took the sides of her skirt in hand, spreading it wide to twist left and right to show it off. Lady Mary smirked into her cocktail, leaning forward as she proclaimed: “I think I recognize that dress.” 

“It’s yours!” Sybbie said exuberantly. No wonder Lady Mary had been sitting in the room with the others during Sybbie’s fitting. She’d been the one to lone her a gown of her childhood. 

“Thank you, Anna.” Lady Grantham said, and Anna (hiding just outside of the door) gave a small curtsey, “She’s absolutely stunning.” 

Thomas gloated and grinned from the door, swelling from pride as Sybbie embraced her grandfather to give him a pert kiss upon the cheek. He hoisted her up, fingering the pearls at her neck. “Crikey, I feel age upon me!” He chortled. 

“Darlin-“ Tom had had enough waiting; Sybbie was happy to obliged. Lord Grantham sat her down and she trotted over at once so that Tom could hoist her up; they touched brows, grinning at one another as he spun her about. “Look at how beautiful you are, eh?” 

Thomas gently closed the door, standing before it. He could not keep from beaming as he watched Tom kiss Sybbie’s hairline. 

“Barrow’s as proud as punch.” Lord Grantham chortled. He was hardly wearing the servant’s blank anymore, and desperately tried to school his expression though it was utterly useless at this point. The Dowager looked displeased. 

“I am, M’lord.” Thomas declared. Tom sat Sybbie down and she hopped up on the couch between the Dowager and father. She observed everyone holding cocktails and looked up to her father hopefully; Tom shook his head at once, eyes narrowed. 

If Sybbie didn’t like wine, gin was going to do her in. Even Thomas had a problem swallowing it at times. 

Sybbie swung her legs a bit, curious as to when all the ‘fun’ would begin no doubt. The Dowager, ever an eye for conduct, stopped her. She patted Sybbie’s knees with an aged hand speaking softly so that no one else could truly overhear unless they were really listening. 

“No see,” The Dowager murmured, “You must never swing your legs. Sit like you were balancing a tray upon your lap.” 

At once Sybbie fell still; Thomas noticed she straightened her spine, though it was only an infinitesimal amount. 

“Careful granny.” Mary teased. “Barrow already had to tear the nanny down to size for putting knives on Sybbie’s chair.” 

“Why?” The Dowager demanded, turning on the couch so that she could now glare at Thomas. Thomas froze, suddenly feeling like he was under a massive spotlight. “That practice gave me a back as straight as an arrow!” 

_Damnit, Mary!_ Thomas thought irritably, _Did you have to sick her on me?_

“Because Thomas loves her.” Tom cut in, diverting the Dowager’s scalding attention away from him. Thank god for him; Thomas relaxed visibly as Tom leaned into the couch so that Sybbie could sit closer to his side. “He doesn’t want her to get poked in the back with a knife-“ 

“If she doesn’t slouch, she won’t get poked.” The Dowager declared, turning again so that she was once more talking to Thomas specifically. He straightened at once. “For heaven’s sake, Barrow. Put the knives back on the chair.” She turned to Tom, “And call your butler by his last name! What is this house coming to?” she demanded. 

Everyone snorted, unwilling to debate with the Dowager.   
Thomas, however, refused to give an inch. 

“Miss Sybbie and I have come to an understanding, M’lady.” Thomas said. The Dowager looked back around with an expression of dry derision. “Should she slouch, she will be forced to leave the table. Which she knows. Yes?” He added to Sybbie who nodded at once. 

“Yes Mr. Barrow.” She answered dutifully. Tom looked smug at her side. 

“There is therefore no need for knives, M’lady.” Thomas summed up. The Dowager huffed irritably. Across the room, Lady Mary and Lady Merton both chortled, amused to see the Dowager doing battle with someone as stiff as he. Clearly they were in the same pencil box, personality wise. 

“Well.” the Dowager muttered bitterly, turning away from Thomas to stare at Lord Grantham, “Don’t blame me if she slouches. Then again, I’m old, what do I know?” she complained. 

“Don’t get hot with Barrow, mama.” Lord Grantham diffused, “He loves your great grand daughter as much as you do.” 

“Yes, well,” The Dowager shifted a bit with her pearl handled cane, still huffing, “That’s a relief.” 

 

After cocktails, they entered the dining room, Sybbie coming in last walking hand in hand with her father. Thomas caught Andy’s eye, at at once they made to seat each Lady to the table descending by rank. Sybbie, naturally, was the last to sit; Thomas had to hoist her underneath the armpits to sit her on her chair atop several dusty Shakespeare volumes which had been put on her seat so that she could adequately reach the table. 

“Remember,” He whispered softly in her ear as he backed away, “Straight as an arrow.” 

“I remember.” Sybbie whispered back. 

“Good girl.” Thomas pushed her up to the table, and Sybbie sat waiting patiently with her hands in her lap, staring slightly daunted at the massive amount of silverware before her. 

Serving the family was a long and illustrious affair, boasting eight courses. They descended by rank and passed each plate with care, first serving up an appetizer of savory soup, then the second dish of roasted turkey with dressing. The third was a two vegetable side dish of english peas and artichokes broiled in a white wine sauce. 

Sybbie said absolutely nothing as each meal went around. When it came time for her to be served, Thomas spoke softly into her ear so that no one but Tom (who sat to Sybbie’s right and next to Thomas) could hear. 

“Do I have to drink my wine?” Sybbie asked, eyeing her glass of white wine with distaste. 

“No.” Thomas whispered as Tom spooned a small serving of turkey upon her plate. “Stick to your water.” He caught Tom’s eye, who winked at him. 

“Now see, when the plates come around, you put what you’d like to eat upon your plate.” He murmured softly in her ear, “For now until you can hold the heavier utensils we’ll let your father do it for you. Yes?” 

Sybbie nodded, watching as Tom put some peas and artichokes onto her plate from Andy’s passing plate. 

“Goodness,” The Dowager grumbled as Thomas pulled away to continue serving the main meat tray to Tom who took his own share at once. “Whatever is going on over there, you two are whispering like you’re going to start a revolution.” 

This was a very real concern when it came to Tom Branson but he flashed the Dowager a winning smile to say, “We are! The revolution of enlightened children!” 

“There are many rules to eating.” Sybbie said, speaking in her most prim and proper voice. Thomas raised an eyebrow at her snobbish tone. Where on earth had she learned to talk like that. Lady Mary was the most obvious culprit but Sybbie’d never indulged in it in front of Thomas before. “I wish to know them all so I can follow them.” 

“And so you will!” Lady Grantham beamed. “You’ll learn it in steps.” 

For a moment there was only mindless chatter, the simplest of things as Lady Grantham and the Dowager lead conversation at the table with Lady Merton piping in every so often. The hospital was going well or so they declared; everyone wanted to be caught up on new policies and new concepts. Apparently Dr. Clarkson had been blessed with new machines for his operating room, including a very fancy x-ray machine straight from London though he was still learning how to adequately use it. 

Thomas kept court behind the Dowager, eyes on Sybbie as she tried to hold her silverware with care (she kept slipping with her knife). The Dowager watched her, eating small bites of turkey carefully as she slipped in small hints every so often for Sybbie to follow: 

“Everything that can be cut without using a knife should be eaten with the fork alone.” 

“Never lay your hand, or play with your fingers upon the table.” 

“Now see- do not toy with your knife. Or your fork and spoon.” 

“Don’t make crumbs with your bread dear, it’s very plebeian. Very lower class.” 

Thomas caught Andy’s eyes at this, the pair of them sharing a secret glance of disdain over the Dowager’s head. When had either of them ever made crumbs with their bread? 

Perhaps desperate to stop getting sliced by her great grandmother, Sybbie spoke up again. It was just her rotten luck that she decided it was best to speak to Thomas. 

“Why don’t you eat with us, Thomas?” Sybbie asked, curious. “Aren’t you hungry?” 

The fact of the matter was that after a life of eating late at night, Thomas was not hungry at normal times. It didn’t bother him. 

It did, however, bother the Dowager. 

“Now, dear, we must never speak to servants at the table unless it is an absolute necessity.” The Dowager advised, “Just pretend they aren’t there. They prefer it that way.” 

Did they? How good of her to inform him. 

“But…” Sybbie looked dismayed at this. Suddenly Tom leaned over and said something softly in her ear. She nodded, listening well, and when he pulled back she caught Thomas’ eye. He smiled warmly at her, an affection that did not go unnoticed by some of the other family members in the room. 

Tom grinned around a mouthful of turkey, content. 

“Can we all eat together one day?” Sybbie wondered aloud, “The staff and the family?” 

“Oh why not?” The Dowager tittered, highly amused, “And while we’re at it they can sleep in our beds and wear our clothes too.” 

_You couldn’t PAY me to wear something of yours_. Thomas thought irritably; he kept his face schooled into a servant’s blank. Lord Merton, however, had something to say. 

“We shouldn’t laugh.” Lord Merton warned, “There might come a day when the men of the working class and the men of the gentry dine together at the same table.” 

“The second coming, I gather.” The Dowager sneered. 

“Pay her no mind, Sybbie.” Lady Merton cut right across the Dowager’s bad attitude, slicing at her like a hot knife through marmalade. “You’re a charming child and want everyone to be happy. Cousin Violet is used to having it all her own way.” 

“And Cousin Isobel is used to calling me out on it.” The Dowager grumbled at this. Happier were the days past when no one made to interrupt the Dowager if she complained. 

“Yes well as far as the working class is considered, you’re probably of the opinion that they shouldn’t read and write, never the less sit at a table.” 

“Well- why on earth would they want to read and write?” The Dowager demanded, perplexed. “That’s far too time consuming.” 

Lady Merton 

“Are you a lord, Daddy?” Sybbie asked, curious. 

“No darlin.” Tom assured her with a grin, “There’s not a drop of blue in my blood.”   
Maybe not, but Tom was more honorable than some men who’d dined at this damn table that was for sure. 

“Oh I don’t know.” Lord Grantham offered hopefully, “Surely there must be someone somewhere related to a Branson.” 

“I appreciate your generosity on the subject.” Tom was quite amused, unable to keep from chuckling at the table, “But no. I am a man of the soil, not the stone.” 

“But then… why do you sit at the table?” Sybbie wondered, “When Thomas serves?” 

“Because I married your mother who is and was a lady.” Tom explained. Sybbie’s mouth made a little ‘o’ in realization as she went back to eating. But then, suddenly an idea dawned upon her and she looked back up to Thomas in delight. 

“I’ve got it!” She declared with glee, dropping her false snobbish voice to speak normally to Thomas, “You must marry a lady, Thomas! Then we can all eat together.” 

Thomas rolled his eyes to the heavens. If only… If only. 

“I gather that wasn’t the first time you’ve heard such advice, Barrow.” The Dowager said, perhaps a jibe to get back at Thomas for not putting knives on Sybbie’s chair spine. Across the table from the Dowager, Lady Grantham shot her a look of warning. 

“Mama.” She muttered under her breath, eyes gleaming. 

Thomas and Andy then went on to serve the next few courses: citrus ice, fresh dinner rolls with sweat cream butter, jellies and sweet pickles, and of course Lord Grantham’s favorite fancy iced lemon cake. Though their guests might not know it, Lord Grantham requested this particular dish from Mrs. Patmore at least three times a week. It was a miracle he himself had not turned into a lemon as a result. 

“I have a concern I wish to raise with you all since we’re sitting together, tonight.” Lord Merton spoke up as he buttered a roll. 

“Should I be worried?” Lady Merton asked. 

“Perhaps.” Lord Merton was never one to beat around the bush, “As you know I thought earlier that I was dying of pernicious anemia. But now that I know I am not… I want to make peace with my sons. In particular, Larry.” 

Well, Thomas wanted to go to London and dance the night away in a jazz club full of handsome sweaty sailors but that wasn’t likely to happen either, was it. 

“Lord Merton.” The Dowager warned, “Your affection does you credit, but there comes a time when one must refrain from self mutilation for the sake of the sensibilities and stomach.” 

_Your dress is a self mutilation_. Thomas thought bitterly, looking away from the mint green atrocity. 

“Here here.” Lady Merton agreed, raising her white wine glass in toast, “They’ve done more than enough to you.” 

“My god man.” Lord Grantham added, “They had you prisoner in your own house.” 

“Larry is like his mother-“ Lord Merton attempted to explain. 

“And a nastier woman never drew breath.” The Dowager added. 

“Touché.” Lord Merton sighed, giving Lady Merton a sad little smile, “But never the less… I want to at least be on civil speaking terms with him. I highly doubt we will ever share the relationship that you share with Mr. Branson-“ He gestured between Lord Grantham and Tom who could not help but smile at one another. It hadn’t always been that they were brotherly, “But what if we could at least eat at the same table?” 

“Without being drugged?” Tom muttered around a mouthful of red wine. 

“Ideally.” Lord Merton said, lips pursed at the thought of ugly memories past. 

“Ideals are all good and well.” Tom sat his wine glass down, crossing his arms over his chest, “But aren’t you being a little too optimistic? What if he doesn’t want to make peace back?” 

Very wise thinking, naturally. In a room full of gentry, only Tom could keep the order. 

“I think he will!” Lord Merton disagreed. 

_Idiot_. Thomas thought, dutifully staring straight ahead without a flicker to his expression. 

“Larry might be difficult, but he’s also practical. He knows there’s no point in fighting with his father for the rest of his life.” 

“I doubt they’ll consent to dine at your new house.” Lady Grantham muttered, “He and Amelia are far too snobbish.” 

“Oh I quite agree.” Lord Merton did not sound pleased, “Which is why I wanted to have it here… if you’d consent.” 

Thomas’ eyes widened in spite of himself. He stared at Lord Grantham even though it was technically improper. 

_Please don’t consent. Please don’t consent. Please don’t consent_. 

“If you want to have him dine here, then of course we’ll allow it.” Lord Grantham said. 

_God damnit I hate you so much_. 

“You’re family after all.” Lord Grantham mused, “And we want to support you… but I wish you’d reconsider.” 

“I’m afraid I must do this.” Lord Merton spoke sadly as if he were referring to an upcoming funeral. “To lay my conscience to rest.” 

“It’ll either be your conscience or Larry.” The Dowager warned; for once that night she and Thomas were in total agreement. 

 

The rest of the dinner continued smoothly enough, and with its closing Thomas and Andy both took the remains downstairs to be washed and cleaned. Thomas wrapped up each piece of silver with care as Mrs. Hughes and Mr. Carson sat at Carson’s side table and drank a glass of port. 

“Lord Merton’s sons are notorious for their fine tastes.” Carson mused, careful not to spill his port with his shaking hands. “To assuage them we’ll have to make this dinner splendid.” 

“Thirteen courses.” Thomas added, who’d already overheard Mrs. Patmore cussing up the hall. 

“I can’t believe we’re catering to a prat.” Mrs. Hughes sighed, irritably. She’d never been one to hide her feelings about the upper class around others of her own gentry. 

“Lord Merton is a good man.” Thomas sighed, for it was rare that a father extended the olive branch to his sons. “He wants to make peace with his sons. What we do we do for him, not for Larry Gray.” 

“I agree.” Carson said, quite pleased by Thomas’ mindset on the manner. Thomas closed and locked the silver cabinet, tugging a bit onto the handles to make sure everything was tight and secure. He slipped the keys back into Carson’s desk drawer, sitting down upon his swivel chair and finally enjoying the cup of tea Mrs. Patmore had poured for him. It was now lukewarm, which spited him. 

“Miss Sybbie get on well with her dinner, then?” Mrs. Hughes asked him, tone changing with hope. 

“Oh yes.” Thomas assured her, smirking into his cup. “She’s too small to really ferry her own food yet so T-… Mr. Branson did it for her.” Thomas nearly slipped up at Tom’s first name, “She said, and I quote ‘There are many rules to eating. I want to know them all so that I can follow them’.” 

Carson was proud as punch, smirking into his port glass as he finished it off with a hearty swig. 

“That ought to please you.” Mrs. Hughes did not miss the delight upon her husband’s aging face. 

“Lady Sybil was a saint.” Mr. Carson said proudly, “I expected nothing less of her only daughter.” 

“And it does you credit, Thomas.” Mrs. Hughes added. Thomas smiled as he took another sip of tea, glad to be off his feet for the evening. “We heard of your demands on Nanny Armstrong. Anna said you and Mr. Branson were up in arms-“ 

“I like to see things done properly, Thomas.” Carson grumbled, cutting across his wife. Mrs. Hughes fell silent, slowly sipping her port. “The nanny should be left to care for the children alone.” 

“Oh I see, well.” Thomas muttered looking away, “Well you can-“ 

But he paused at the sharp look Carson gave him.   
No more smart mouth; he remembered his new role bitterly and sat in silence for a moment as he looked down at his tea cup before sitting it aside to put his chin in his hand. 

“I do not enjoy seeing a child I love be tortured, Mr. Carson.” Thomas finally grumbled. 

“If she does not slouch, it is not torture.” Carson advised, unknowingly taking words right out of Dowager’s mouth. It did not surprise him that they were of the same mindset. 

“Well she didn’t slouch, anyways.” Thomas shot back, unable to keep from getting a jab in even if it was slightly impertinent. 

“Don’t fuss, Mr. Carson.” Mrs. Hughes kept the peace between the two men as always, “You’d be angry if Lady Mary had to be prodded with knives.” 

“I’ll remind you that she was!” Carson declared, sounding none too pleased about the matter, “We used wooden pegs on a strap. I think it’s probably in the attics. I’ll want that on Sybbie’s chair should she dine again.” 

Thomas glared. 

“It’s hardly knives.” Mrs. Hughes soothed him. 

 

Port soon turned into mindless chatter which lead for Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes to both take their leave of Thomas if only to speak privately with Mrs. Patmore. He sat alone in Mr. Carson’s office, going over Nanny Armstrong’s new employee file, writing down notes from the day’s adventures just as Mr. Carson had ordered:

_January 15th: Attempted to put knives on the back of Sybbie’s dining chair without my approval. Given verbal warning._

Thomas capped his pen and slipped it into his vest pocket, wiping his hands upon his dark blue handkerchief in case a spot of errant ink had touched his fingers. He blew a bit upon the page, making sure it was fully dry before rising up and heading to the employee file cabinet to open it with his newly acquired keys. It still amazed him that he was now allowed into every nook and cranny of the house though as of yet he hadn’t found anything too shocking or vile. Downton Abbey was oddly normal, and damn him for thinking it hadn’t been. He unlocked and opened the cabinet, staring at all the current files. Employees that ended their service with the house were put into the lower hanging cabinet, making for easy sorting typical of Mrs. Hughes. Several names jumped out at Thomas among the throng. 

_Barrow, Bates, Bates neé Smith, Baxter, Carson, Carson neé Hughes, Parker, Patmore, Robinson_

Thomas slid Armstrong’s file right in front. She was the only ‘A’ in the stack, and the first in the cabinet before his own file. 

He stared at his own named upon the aged yellow folder. 

It was wrong, and against protocol, but he was technically the Butler now. Didn’t that mean that he got to call the shots? That he made the protocol for others to follow? Dire curiosity burned within his belly, making his hands tingle as he took up his bulging file and pulled it free from the cabinet to take it back over to Carson’s desk. He sank down into the chair, flipping the file open to its first page, and found that it was chock piled with envelopes, papers, and photographs that were paper clipped to the front page. He stared bemused at a picture of himself in youth, clearly from the first year he’d come to the Abbey. There was likewise a picture of him in his RAMC uniform, as well as a picture of him in a staff photo from two years prior. Was it his imagination or did his expression grow more sour and saddened by the year? 

His confidential record started with the basics. His full name, his pay roll, status of employment and such. But then there were other things that were left uncommonly blank such as his personal information involving his date of birth and emergency contact information. His education was likewise blank. 

With a sigh, Thomas uncapped his ballpoint pen and immediately filled in both is birthdate and his education, leaving the emergency contact blank. There was no point in writing in the abbey’s address. Should his ‘ship sink’, the people that needed to know were the people in the house. 

But there were other things; more complicated things. 

His years in the house were divided by page, each one tallied by month and then date. Every disciplinary action ever taken against him, every comment about his character was duly noted and it made his stomach squirm as he watched himself sink lower and lower in reputation through print. 

He flipped through the pages slowly. 

**Notes:**

**1910**   
_September 1st: Hired as junior footman_.

1911  
 _March 5th: Internal promotion to second footman in lieu of career shift._

_June 13th: Altercation with first footman, Adock. Given verbal warning._

_July 16th: Internal promotion to first footman in lieu of absence._

**1912**   
_March 22nd: Altercation with second footman, Mason. Given verbal warning_. 

_March 30th: Altercation with valet, Bates. Given verbal warning_.

 **1913**   
_June 3rd: Signoretto Snuffbox missing. Possible suspect_. 

_June 8th: Snuffbox found back in rightful place. Tense. Suspect foul play against Bates. Almost certain he was the one to take it. He thinks me blind. I see all_. 

**1914**

_September 12th: Has come forward with O’Brien and Robinson claiming Bates has stolen wine. Twenty four bottles missing_. 

_September 22nd: Have discovered information about Bates was falsified. Given final verbal warning along with O’Brien. Robinson given first verbal warning. Such a nice girl to go this way…_

_September 23rd: Have been informed by Robinson that Barrow blackmailed her into giving false testimony. Have discovered he is actual thief. Have decided to fire_. 

_September 25th: Have been informed by Barrow is leaving to join medical corp. Good riddance!_

 

He winced in spite of himself, and to keep from looking at the ugly send off he flipped to 1920, wondering what on earth he’d find. Nerves biting at him, he scrolled with the tip of his finger down to October 21st and found it oddly blank, but now that he thought about it it made perfect sense. Carson had not been aware of his ‘midnight rendezvous’ until the day after: 

_October 22nd: Have been informed by Nugent that Barrow elicited inverted acts with Kent. “Kissed him while lying in bed”. Have spoken to Barrow. Does not deny, claims Kent the victim. Believed Kent was likewise inverted. Possibly going to police, unsure_. 

_October 23rd: Have been blackmailed by Kent into not giving reference. Will be giving Barrow ample time to get his things together. He defended Kent, though I am unsure why. Hughes has offered the explanation of ‘love’. Makes my stomach turn. Cannot decide what to do. Distressed_. 

Oh sure. He’d been distressed. 

 

Stomach twisting angrily, Thomas flipped to the very last page, then went back one to the year 1925. The early months were largely blank, but as he scrolled slowly (frightened) to June, the page turned black with ink: 

_June 11th: Has attempted suicide by slitting his wrists. Clarkson has stitched him up here to avoid scandal. Has warned me that Barrow will attempt suicide again. Have informed his lordship. All are shocked. Did I do this?_

_June 18th: Has attempted suicide again. Held meat cleaver to his neck before Elsie, Patmore, Baxter and myself. Talked him down, is resting comfortably now. Very nervous and unsure of what to do. Should I call a hospital? Should I call his family?_

_June 27th: Last night received a call around three in the morning informing me that Barrow was found in a bathtub with a cracked skull, shouting that I was trying to murder him. That I had no eyes. Has been taken to the hospital and received call this morning notifying me that he has come out of surgery well. Clarkson is considering possible institutional stay. Have notified Briarcliffe, have been asked to keep them informed. Psychiatrist coming, if failed attempt will be notifying Briarcliffe for short term stay with Clarkson’s permission. Do not know how to tell him. Clarkson has offered sedation for the journey_. 

Thomas let out a breath, wounded. 

So it seemed that they had been in contact with a mental asylum. The damned liars had kept him in the dark the whole time, promising him he was safe. It hurt him more than he could say, to know even as he’d rested in his bed and thought himself in a cradle he’d actually been poised over a precipice. Honestly how hard would have been for them to sedate him and cart him off? He’d been so weak, so thin… 

But he just kept reading, intent on knowing the full story. 

_July 4th: Psychiatrist Dr. Robert Kinsey has arrived. Praying this will work_. 

_July 6th: Have spoken with Dr. Kinsey. Wants me to look on Barrow as a member of our ‘family’ and urges that, in time, might become normal. Cannot find myself hoping I could improve his life somehow— perhaps one day this will all be an odd memory_. 

_July 11th: Psychiatrist has left. Barrow seems much improved. Notified both Briarcliffe and Clarkson. Relieved. Seems to be showing self reproach. Has been internally promoted to Nanny. He is delighted and so are the children_. 

_October 10th: Got into physical altercation with Bates after being called a Gunsel. Had intervention with Dr. Kinsey. Seems to be much improved, though he did break a lamp. Will not be punishing him. Very proud of his character improvement_. 

_December 31st: Has been given a promotion to my own position in lieu of my illness. I could not be prouder of him in this moment_. 

With mixed emotions, Thomas drummed his fingers upon his lips, wondering what on earth to do. Part of him felt betrayed, part felt gratified, part felt horribly guilty for his earlier sins. It was all too confusing to unravel at the same moment and so he flipped over to the next section of the file which involved his references letters and other odd envelopes. It was strange to see the handwriting of his former butler Mr. Edgar Burland. Thomas had not thought of his first house in nearly twenty years, and as he read the glowing reference he could not help but smile. Burland had always had a soft spot for Thomas after finding him freezing to death beneath a bridge, begging for scraps without shoes: 

_“Barrow is well trained in the arts of servitude and has a graceful ease during meal times that will compliment any staffing. I give him my full recommendation and consider him a valuable asset to my staff.”_

Thomas smiled, running his finger softly over the inked signature of Burland’s name. He would never be able to tell the man how much his generosity had meant to him. He could remember being a teenager, shivering shoeless beneath an icy bridge and whimpering for food. Burland had found him and put a coat upon his shoulders, thick and heavy with warmth. He’d offered Thomas a job, despite not even knowing his last name or why he was beneath that bridge. He wondered what might have happened to him had Mr. Burland not found him… he’d probably have died of starvation or cold. 

Or both. 

He flipped the page, finding another letter from his former house keeper Mrs. Deller. She’d honestly had a bit more trouble with Thomas than Mr. Burland. She’d been a strict woman who’d liked tidiness and itched for order. Thomas had come to her in rags, a heathen, but she’d beaten some sense into him with a bar of lye soap and a starched uniform. She’d been the one to force him to stand up straight, to rule him with a yardstick that she’d smack against his hands or against the backs of his legs if he’d ever given her trouble. At first he’d hated her, feared her, but in time he’d grown to respect her. She’d done what no one else had wanted to do. She’d been his parent…. and she’d made sure all of Mr. Burland’s lessons had stuck so that Thomas could be groomed in one year from a street urchin with no past to a head hall boy with a glowing reference letter. 

He read her tidy script with care: 

_“While our butler, Mr. Burland has found Barrow easy to accommodate, I have had a different experience. Barrow had no prior connections before entering our house and tracking down his family for character references was not easy. I discovered about two years prior that Barrow came from Stockport, a coastal town in Lancashire but when I attempted to gain reference I was rebuffed several times. As a Christian woman, I feel it my duty to inform you that Barrow is inverted, but not a threat. I ask you to remember the teachings of Christ in the values of compassion and mercy, despite him being a sinner. I had to go through the church to discover that Barrow was outcasted from his family at the age of fourteen. When he joined our staff as a hall boy, he was seventeen. It is difficult to know how he came by his skills or made his way to Middx in three years time.You therefore have nothing to fear in regards to unseemly behavior with women, but I do beg you to give caution with his relationships towards other men. He can prove himself as aloof as a barn cat, but at other times he can cling in a most unseemly manor.”_

Funny how he read it internally with her sharp Irish brogue. It seemed her reference had gone on to two pages and he flipped the next one. 

Only to have the bottom of his stomach drop out. 

_“In regards to prior history, if it is any indication of his relationship with his family, I received word through the church that his mother committed suicide after he was cast out, having felt that her child’s inversion was a personal punishment for her offending God. As far as I know, Barrow has never been made aware, having been completely cut off from his family. I would advise you not to tell him, and to keep the subject of family to a minimum.”_

He stared. 

_“His mother committed suicide after he was cast out.”_   
_“Personal punishment for her offending God”_

_“Mother”_   
_“Committed suicide”_   
_“Personal punishment”_   
_“God”_

_“Mother”_   
_“Suicide”_   
_“Punishment”_

_“Mother”_

The door to the hallway opened, revealing Hughes and Carson about to make their way home for the night with coats and hats on. They entered at first, wholly unaware of the horrific situation they’d stumbled into. 

“We’re leaving for the night- Thomas?” Mrs. Hughes paused, taken aback at the sight of Thomas in Mr. Carson’s chair with his employee file spread out before him. 

Tears fell unbidden from his eyes, his face bloodless and his mouth parted though no sound issued, not even a breath. 

“…My…” Thomas croaked, “My mother… committed suicide… because of me?” 

Both Carson and Hughes said nothing, each speechless at Thomas’ newfound discovery. With a steady but slow hand, Carson closed the door to the hallway till it latched with a soft metallic click. 

It was the only noise in the room besides Mrs. Hughes’ nervous breathing. 

“What ever are you doing?” She whispered, taking a tentative step closer, “You’re not supposed to read your own file, even if you are Butler.” 

But Thomas could make no sense of such things. 

“My mother-“ he croaked out, shaking his head. 

His mother was dead.   
His mother had committed suicide.   
Because of him. 

His mother was dead because of him.   
His mother had committed suicide because of him. 

He cupped his mouth, rising up from the chair so that it scraped lightly against the wood, pushed by the backs of his knees. Tears that fell glided and glistened down his ashen white knuckles. He stared at Carson and Hughes in horror, both of whom didn’t seem to know what to say. 

Mrs. Hughes took off her hat, slowly placing it down on the desk to cover up the offending letter from Mrs. Deller. 

“Let me make you a cup of tea.” She whispered, speaking in utmost care as if she likened him to a bomb that might go off. “And we can talk about it” 

“No.” Thomas replied short and swift, dropping his hands from his mouth to use them like a divider in between the two of them. He chopped at the air, fingers stiff straight. “I don’t want tea, my mother committed suicide because of me and you didn’t tell me!” 

He threw a hand out, turning away. He had to clap a hand over his mouth again before Mrs. Hughes could see his lips trembling. It was humiliating. “You knew!” He seethed, turning on them both and attempting to channel his grief into rage. “You knew for sixteen years, and you didn’t tell me.” 

But there was more- buckets upon buckets of horrible guilt-! 

“I had siblings, a sister that was two-“ Thomas blurted out, “Alice was two- a two year old lost her mother because of me-!” He let out a hysterical bubble of laughter though there wasn’t a drop of joy in it. “My god… what have I done?” Thomas sunk, somehow ending up sitting upon Mr. Carson’s desk as he clutched a hand over his aching heart at the thought of his youngest siblings crying for a specter that would never be able to comfort them. “God, I killed my mother. I killed my mother!” 

And with that horrible knowledge about it, Thomas let out an ugly, jaded sob; he hid his face in a hand, using the other to clutch white knuckled at the edge of the desk. 

Neither Mrs. Hughes nor Mr. Carson seemed to know what to say. They remained absolutely silent, bitter but without remorse. Their intentions had been good. They had not told him to keep him from feeling despair… but despair had found him anyways. 

He grunted savagely, ripping his hand down from his face as he jerked off Carson’s desk and made his way to the door. Carson tried to stop him but he shoved the man’s hands off of him. 

“Don’t touch me!” Thomas barked, hands up in the air to keep Carson from grabbing onto him again. Carson watched him wary, perhaps thinking he might attack, “Don’t you understand, I’ve killed my mother! I’ve killed my mother!” He cried aloud, his voice echoing about the room. 

“Don’t touch me.” Thomas sniffed, grabbing at the doorknob and pulling at it so that he could exit into the hall. 

“Thomas, please-!” Mrs. Hughes protested after him, “It wasn’t your fault-! You weren’t to know!” 

He stormed up the stairs, unsure of where he was going, and exited out onto the main floor to pace, savage in the dark of the main hallway. He took the stairs to the gallery, still feeling without purpose or pace even as he leaned haggardly against the marble railing over the main hall and wept. His tears dripped from his chin, falling down into the dark to surely hit the rug or the floor. 

It did not seem plausible to him, it did not seem logical, that his mother as cold and hard as freshly cooled iron could have felt such pity and emotion for his sake. He could see her now, as plain as day in his eye, exhausted and bitter as she slaved over her stove or sowed buttons onto trousers. She’d harassed his father for more money, demanded to know why business was dry. She’d beaten them all with her broom. Shepherded them about like a dog to sheep. 

_“In the house!”_ she’d shouted when they’d been outside and it had begun to rain, swatting them as they passed. 

_“Outside!”_ she’d shouted when they’d been driving her mad indoors and getting in the way of her starched cleaning methods. 

He wondered what she’d shouted when she’d come home from market and found him gone that December 14th. Had she gone from room to room, looking for him? Had she shouted his name? When she’d discovered him completely gone had she scrubbed and starched his room, then swallowed her lye? 

How had she done it?   
When had she done it?   
Who had found her? 

He wanted to know.   
He wanted to know and he wanted to scream. 

~*~ 

Tom sat upon his daughter’s bed, keeping her company even as Nanny Armstrong helped Anna to take William for the night. He was apparently putting up quite the fuss and refused to cooperate with wearing boots or mitties. Tom could hear him squalling from a door away though he didn’t disturb George who was already fast asleep in bed. 

He couldn’t recall being prouder of Sybbie than tonight; how she’d glowed in her beautiful dress! She’d ate with such care, sat with such precision. He wanted her to eat downstairs for the rest of her life now… wanted to sit beside her and watch her grow. Not for the first time, Tom wondered what she might look like when she was in her teens. What she might look like as an adult. Would she go the way of her mother and become a nurse? Would she take up a job at Edith’s magazine? Would she hold charity events like Mary, or marry young and take up a wild affair? Who was to say… who was to know. These were the rewards of time to find out; Tom looked forward to each and every one of them as he tucked her in bed. 

“Daddy…” Sybbie mumbled, “How did the sea become so salty?” 

“Why do you ask?” Tom wondered. 

“Thomas said it was because a magical meal grinder spouted salt and fell into the ocean.” 

Tom snorted, imagining what a story that must have been. It was no secret in the house that Thomas indulged the children in bizarre fairy tales. 

“There might be.” Tom mused, for once again he was a foreign to the ancient mysteries of the past as he was to the fruits of the future, “That’s the beauty of stories. They might be true, they might not. Only the dead may know what goes beyond.” 

“I’ll ask mommy.” Sybbie decided. 

Tom froze.   
What had she just said? 

“…What?” Tom asked. Sybbie yawned, eyes closed, speaking sluggishly as she deeper and deeper into the throws of sleep. 

“Thomas talks to the dead on a board…” Sybbie mumbled softly, “One night he let me and Georgie sit with him and we talked to mommy and Mr. Matthew. He told me never to tell… but maybe if I ask nicely he’ll let me do it again.” 

She opened her eyes, rubbing at them with balled fists and yawning again, “Mommy was very sweet. She told me she loved me. She thanked Thomas for being so good to us.” 

Tom pulled back, looking away across the room. 

Thomas had let Sybbie and George play with an ouija board? Even for Thomas that was rather risky. He doubted that Sybbie had actually spoken to Sybil. It just seemed too good to be true; too far fetched. The idea of a connection existing between this world and the next made Tom’s heart throb with pain as he thought of Sybil laying upon their bed, still and cold. 

_“Please don’t leave me.”_ He’d begged her.   
But she’d had no choice, and neither had he. 

“… I’ll talk to him about it.” Tom murmured. He schooled his expression, desperate to keep from looking forlorn in front of his daughter on such a good night. He leaned and kissed her softly upon the head, taking her hands in his own to recite an Irish blessing in her ear. He’d often done this in her infancy though she hadn’t been able to understand him then: “May your neighbors respect you, troubles neglect you, the angels protect you, and heaven accept you.” 

Sybbie smiled, and closed her eyes. Sleep claimed her easily. 

Tom rose from her bed, careful not to wake either her or George as he exited the nursery and gently shut the door behind him. Nanny Armstrong stood collecting errant toys from the playroom floor, putting them into a decorated wooden trunk across from the glowing hearth. It seemed both William and Anna were gone, no doubt headed home to the Bates’ cottage for the night. 

“I wonder if I might beg your indulgence, Mr. Branson.” Nanny Armstrong asked. Tom paused, willing to give her a bit of his time though not much else beyond that. 

“Yes?” 

“If you could, please convey to Mr. Barrow that I did not mean to torture your daughter.” Nanny Armstrong grumbled, “He might not believe this, but as it so turns out most people do not willingly lean into knives. Sybil would have easily been able to refrain from feeling pain-“ 

“You can’t convey this yourself?” Tom wondered dryly. Nanny Armstrong gave him a sour look. 

“It’s the fool that looks to Mr. Barrow for mercy when his mind is made up.” She reminded him. Tom didn’t know whether not he fully agreed with that sentiment anymore. 

He left the playroom, and exited into the quiet and dark hall. He closed the door behind him till it latched, musing to himself as he walked slowly back to his own room. 

He couldn’t make up his mind whether or not he believed Sybbie had actually talked to her mother. His family had been divided on the subject of the dead. Both his father and his grandfather had been of the firm opinion that the dead stayed dead. End of subject, end of story. His mother and grandmother though had been right the opposite declaring that the dead were all around them and it was a fool who denied the facts before their face. They’d even owned an ouija board though his grandfather had been right cheeky whenever his grandmother had pulled it out. Once, he’d snuck out of the house while his grandmother tried for a seance, tiptoeing around the edge of the house to get in the kitchen window with a sheet over his head to try and pull off the impression of a ghost walking past. He’d so terrified Tom and his six siblings that they’d run from the board to hide underneath the couch in the living room, sobbing into the wood as they’d begged their father to go outside and scare off the ‘spirit’. 

His grandfather had laughed himself silly even while Tom’s mother had screamed at him for cutting holes in her bed linens. 

_“Only a Branson!” She’d shriek in dismay, ever her answer for anything that pissed her off in the house. “Only a Branson would think to cut holes in perfectly good sheets for a laugh! You own me ten pence, Seamus!”_

But Tom was jerked clean out of that numerous memory by the sights and sounds of an unexpected arrival on the gallery floor. Thomas Barrow burst from the main staircase, stumbling and staggering as if drunk to lean over the marble railing to the first floor. He shivered violently, emitting the strangest sounds. 

It put a stab of fear in Tom’s heart.

 

Thomas was distraught, back bowed as he went and shivered upon the railing of the gallery landing. So obvious was his woe, so horrifying was his despair, that Tom automatically thought Carson or Hughes was dead. Thomas clutched at his heart as if he was about to suffer a heart attack, whimpering. 

“Thomas?” Tom called out. Thomas staggered upright, taken aback by sudden company. Instead of wiping his face and attempting to hide his horror, he wept openly before Tom in agony. 

It frightened him. 

“I killed my mother.” Thomas whispered, horror evident in his voice. 

“What?!” Tom demanded, agog. 

“I just-“ Thomas pointed, for whatever reason, to the western wall which opened up to overlook the Cora’s rose gardens. “I just read my employee file. In the office.” he savagely wiped his eyes though it did no good. Tom drew ever closer till they were all but side by side. He took Thomas’ elbow in hand and found him shaking like a frightened horse, “My mother has been dead for years, and no one told me. She committed suicide because of me… Because I’m a… a… catamite.” He bit out the word in self loathing, only to lean and fall back against a marble column behind them. Down he sank, till his bottom touched the floor and he could bury his face in his knees. He wept into them, his groans softened by flesh. “I’ve killed my mother. I’ve killed my mother, what have I done? I had siblings that were two when she died. I deprived a two year old of its mother!” He looked up to Tom, cheeks flushed and eyes sparkling with tears even as they were shed, “What have I done?” he asked. 

Oh boy. 

Tom took to a knee, dropping down so that he and Thomas could sit side by side. He held to Thomas then, taking an arm around the man’s shoulders so that he could comfort him better. What on earth could he say to Thomas, to sooth him in his woe? The death of a man’s mother was hardly an easy matter, but to imagine it was your fault? That you somehow drove her to suicide? Tom could not dare touch it with a ten foot pole. The best he could do was remind Thomas of the facts, and so console him through them alone. 

“Hey…” He murmured. When Thomas did not acknowledge him he gently nudged him, whispering directly into his ear. “Hey. You listen to me.” Thomas shifted his head a bit, and Tom leaned in making sure he heard what Tom said, “You did not put that blade in her hand or those pills in her mouth. Yeah?” He urged. Thomas blinked, sniffing, “She had a lot of kids, yeah?” Thomas nodded, “She was probably stressed as hell. Your Da good to her?” Thomas shrugged, sighing a bit, “Bet he wasn’t. S’not uncommon. She’d had enough. She was stressed, tired, unloved- her baby’d been sent away from her. I bet you bein’ forced out broke her heart. Course she killed herself. She thought she’d failed as a mother to protect you. You didn’t kill her, your Da did. S’his fault. Not yours.” 

Thomas wiped at his face again, taking no care with his eyes. He was hard against himself, harming his flesh. Tom wanted to tell him to take more care with himself. To stop abusing himself simply for having feelings. He kept an arm about Thomas’ shoulders, careful to watch him as he recovered from his spell of misery. At long last, Thomas’ tears stopped flowing and he wiped his eyes one final time, yanking out a dark blue handkerchief from his breast pocket to clean his face. His eyes were swollen and bloodshot as he turned to Tom and gave him a watery smile.

Tom returned it, glad to see him soothed. 

“I have bad news.” Thomas whispered, the pair of the conversing like children hiding under a bed sheet. “Carson wants to put pegs on the back of Sybbie’s chair.”

“Tell him no!” Tom said at once. Thomas shrugged with a small somber smile. 

“It’s difficult but I’ll try.” He assured him. 

“You’ll think of something.” Tom said, for if there were anyone clever on this earth, it was Thomas Barrow, “You always do.” Yet Sybbie’s revelation left him wondering at Thomas’ tactics as he added, “Sybbie mentioned to me that you let her use the ouija board.” 

Thomas glanced at him, quite guilty, but it was no matter. Tom had not come to raise a fight. “Tom-“ Thomas mumbled, but Tom cut him off. 

“I’m not angry, Thomas.” Tom said, and it was the truth. “I just don’t understand why you’d let her when it could invoke bad spirits.” 

“Not if you use it right.” Thomas argued, “With respect, which I do.” 

“She said she spoke to Sybil.” Tom mused, an ugly ache starting in his heart. Was it jealousy that he felt? Thomas said nothing for a moment, registering the weight between them with care. 

“I believe she did. Yes.” Thomas said. With his backing, Tom could feel content. Thomas was not one to be deceived by his senses. Even when he was chewing at the neck of a kind man, he was aware of himself. Perhaps too aware. 

“…Maybe I want to speak to her too.” Tom admitted. 

Thomas raised an eyebrow, “Do you even go in for that?” He asked, “You’re Catholic.” 

“In practice, yes.” Tom admitted, for should he dare go against his creed he was certain his grandmother would come clawing up out of the Earth to take him by the ankle and drag him straight down to hell. “But I’d be a fool not to believe in ghosts when they’re all around. My grandmother swore her husband followed her all about after his death at a plow horses’ hooves. He even haunted the horse and caused it to die an early death.”

He could see his grandmother now, at her rocking chair and crossing her breast in fear as she clutched her rosary to her heart. 

_“Lor’ be.” She’d whisper to the wind, “Is that you Seamus?”_

 

“That’s hardly kind.” Thomas said “Was it truly the horses fault?” 

By god, had it been. Tom could still remember that animal, fighting and kicking all the way to its grave. It had been less like a horse and more like a tiger. 

“It was never a gentle animal.” Tom sneered. 

Thomas merely shrugged his shoulders, “Que sera sera” 

“Will you let me try?” Tom asked, “The ouija, I mean.” 

“What makes you think I’m the one to talk to?” 

“Well you’re clearly the resident psychic.” 

Thomas grinned, dabbing at the corners of his eyes again with his blue handkerchief before pocketing it and saying, “Meet me in the servant’s hall at midnight. Come alone.” He added, just to clarify. Tom rolled his eyes. 

They helped each other up, staggering back onto their feet so that Thomas could pull his vest straight and Tom could dust off his backside. 

“Oh no, I thought I’d bring the whole family.” Tom chuckled, walking backward as he made his way to the bachelor’s corridor. Thomas was never one to go down without a quip. 

“Bring the Dowager.” Thomas joked as he reached the green baize door, “She knows the most dead people.” 

Tom all but choked on his tongue laughing. 

~*~

If someone had told Thomas only thirty minutes ago that he would end up having a nice night with Tom, he’d have surely smacked them about the face with one of Mrs. Patmore’s cast iron skillets. As it stood, the shelf clock above the servant’s hall hearth was poised to strike midnight any second now and Thomas had the ouija board out and ready with candles lit, just waiting on Tom. He’d returned downstairs only to find a note from Mrs. Hughes and Mr. Carson on Carson’s desk dictating that Thomas could have the following day off to ‘grieve’ at his leisure and that they were both sorry for his loss. He’d promptly put the note in the bin, for how could he claim such free time when his mother had been dead for nearly twenty years now? 

The dull echo of feet upon the stairwell made Thomas turn round, and he smiled pleasantly at the sight of Tom’s shadow slinking along the wall of the hallway. It morphed into the flesh as Tom rounded the corner in his pajamas, barefoot and holding a bottle of whiskey in one hand and a shot glass in the other. What was more, he was carrying a small pad of paper and a pen. 

“Squiffy?” Thomas joked. Tom took the seat next to him, drawing the chair out with a dulled creak against the stone. He sat down, putting the whiskey and the lone shot glass upon the table along with his pad and pen. 

“Not yet.” Branson assured him, “It’s an Irish tradition.” 

He uncapped the whiskey and poured a healthy shot, recapping it with a soft squeeze of the cork. It was a bottle of Knappogue Castle, boasting a creamy label and a whiskey inside that gleamed like gold. “We each drink one shot, and use the upside down shot glass as the planchette.” Tom explained. 

Thomas dutifully moved the regular planchette to the side, just off the surface of the board. Careful not to spill any of his drink, he took up the shot glass and silently toasted Tom with it. 

“You pour for me, I pour for you.” Tom decreed before saying, “May the saddest days of your future be no worse than the happiest days of your past.” 

Little did Tom know that hardly boded him well. Thomas threw back the shot, eyes locked on Tom who, for whatever reason, grew silent and watched him with greatest care as the whiskey slid down his throat. Creamy, smooth, sweet, and sharp it was absolutely delicious. Dear god no wonder the Irish liked to drink. As he set his shot glass back down, he took up the bottle of whiskey in hand to pour a healthy shot for Tom, filling it up to the brim as he slid the glass over. Tom took it up at once, holding it before Thomas who corked the bottle only to use it as a perch for his chin as he offered Tom a smile. 

“Do I toast you?” Thomas asked. 

“You do.” Tom said. 

“…May we be in heaven half an hour before the devil knows we’re dead.” Thomas joked. Tom threw back the shot at once, drinking like a pro as he smacked the glass back down on the wood. 

“Now that I’ll drink to.” Tom declared, taking the whiskey bottle from Thomas only to pour another shot which he passed over. Thomas took it up, waiting to hear what Tom would say. “Here’s to hell.” Tom said with gleeful malice, “May the stay there be as much fun as the way there.” 

If it involved sodomy Thomas was game. He threw back the shot, throat burning as he smirked around the rim of the glass. Once again, Tom seemed enraptured by watching him swallow alcohol. Thomas licked his lips to chase an errant drip, taking the whiskey bottle from Tom and filling him up a tall one. Tom picked it up, waiting patiently. 

“Here’s to you and here’s to me.” Thomas gestured to them both. “May we never disagree. But if we do, the hell with you, here’s to me!” 

Tom burst out laughing, having to pause before he threw back his shot. Mirthful, he drank and smack the shot glass back down on the table before corking the whiskey bottle and pushing it aside. He upended the shot glass so that a few drops could land on the board, set it straight down in the middle. 

“Cheers.” Tom declared. 

“Sláìnte.” Thomas said. Tom did a double take, amazed. 

“You can speak Gaeilge?” Tom asked in wonder. Thomas shrugged. 

“Just that word.” He admitted. Tom shook his head with a small smirk. 

“You spoil me.” He declared, “Now how do we use this ruddy board?” 

“Alright.” Thomas scooted his chair a little closer to the table, “First thing we do is push it twice around the board, clockwise… one finger, lightly pushing.” 

Both Tom and Thomas leaned over, placing the tips of their pointer finger upon the top of the shot glass. The pushed it round in a circle, the way smoothed by the wet rim.

“We’re warming it up.” Thomas explained. They came to a stop, the makeshift planchette square in the center of the board. 

Tom used his free hand to open up his pad of paper, uncapping his pen to pose it over the pad. He grimaced, shifting the pen about. 

“Damn, I’m left handed.” Tom admitted, for he was having to use his right hand. Thomas, however, was right handed and using his left hand so he silently urged for the paper and Tom passed it over. 

“I’ll write.” Thomas said, “You ask questions.” 

“Alright then.” Tom cleared his throat far too dramatically for the occasion, speaking as if he were talking to an audience and not to the dead. “Is somebody there.” 

So they sat, waiting for what was surely over ten minutes in absolute silence as Tom’s honeyed eyes flickered from Thomas to the board. 

“…No one’s there.” He grumbled. 

“Give it a moment.” Thomas urged, ever patient with the dead. 

“I gave it ten!” Tom sneered, clearly not as long winded. 

“It’s warming up-“ Thomas protested. 

“We already did that.” 

“Hush and have a drink.” Thomas grumbled, and so Tom uncorked the whiskey bottle with one hand to drink it straight down without the aid of a shot glass. As if bidden by Tom’s consumption of fine Irish whiskey, the shot glass suddenly began to twitch under their fingers. Tom nearly choked mid swallow of his whiskey, hoarse as he proclaimed, 

“Mm-! It’s m’grandmother! She’s come to drag me away by the ear!” Tom said in exaggerated fear. Thomas just sneered. 

“If you’re lucky.” Thomas muttered, thinking suddenly of his own mother and how it might very well be her own spirit, bidden out of its cold grave to berate him once again. Ever so slowly the shot glass twitched to the word ‘hello’, and at once Thomas wrote the word down, scribbling feverishly with Tom’s pen. 

“Hello there, to whom am I speaking?” Tom spoke as if he were talking into a telephone. Thomas laughed in spite of himself. 

The shot glass swiveled to the letter ‘E’, and Thomas gasped, delight rising in his chest emboldened by his two shots of whiskey. 

“Edward?” Thomas asked hopefully. At once, the shot glass swerved to ‘yes’. Thomas beamed in delight, much to Tom’s amusement, “Oh Edward-!” 

“Who the ruddy hell is Edward?” Tom asked, leaning forward to put his ear close to the shot glass as if to hear through the board. 

“Edward, are you safe?” Thomas called out in the air, “Are you in the dark where I left you?” 

He feared it, deplored it, but it seemed it was so as the shot glass swiveled around ‘yes’. “Edward, try and escape.” Thomas implored him, “Try and get out, go towards light and warmth-!” 

With a sudden and swift jerk, the shot glass shot to ‘no’. 

“I’m taking over!” Tom snapped, getting quite annoyed, “What do you want, Edward?” 

The shot glass moved to the sun decorating the edge of the board. “Sun?” Tom drawled, “Y’want more light?” 

Thomas was torn between wanting to laugh and wanting to berate Tom for being so rude to poor Edward. Really Tom should come with a warning label. 

“It’s a symbol.” Thomas managed to get out at last, tickled pink, “It means appreciation and love…. because he loves me.” At this, the shot glass slid back to ‘yes’. 

Tom looked up, eyes hooded with disdain. At first, Thomas wondered if he’d crossed the line by alluding his inverted sexuality, but instead of being disgusted Tom seemed smug. He licked his lips, relaxing back in his chair though he never took the top of his finger off his shot glass. 

“Oh.” He drawled in a long breath, “I see. We’re talkin’ to your fancy man…. What is this, your idea of date with the dark side?” 

Thomas snorted, opening his mouth to make a smart ass retort, but then everything began to change. 

Just like before in the bathtub, where there had once been calm and hot water, there was suddenly an icy composition to the room that gutted the candles Thomas had lit. It was the nursery bathroom all over again. All seven candles went out, and Tom’s smirk dropped at once as, in the gloom, he stared at Thomas waiting to see if it was all a prank. As if he’d pulled a string and gutted the candles to prove a point. It seemed the more Thomas used the ouija board, the more adept he became. 

Thomas could see his breath, a shining mist that drifted up to the ceiling. 

Tom let out a tiny nervous chuckle, Thomas did not return it. 

The shot glass suddenly moved with unnerving power, dragging from the sun over to the moon. Its implication was ominous and even Tom was robbed of his normal humor as Thomas quickly attempted to do damage control. 

“Edward, wait!” Thomas begged, “Don’t be upset!” 

“Touchy!” Tom did not like being assumed for the villain, “I didn’t mean anything by it! Edward’s a damn ninny!” 

but the shot glass kept jerking, shuddering beneath their fingertips, and in their fear both Tom and Thomas recoiled as they clutched at their chairs to watch the madly twitching glass. It vibrated, practically seemed to hum, and then with all the fury of a well strung arrow shot off the table to fly across the room and hit the wall. It exploded in a shower of glass! 

The silence that followed was deafening. 

“… Your boyfriend is rude.” Tom whispered. 

“You upset him.” Thomas whispered back. He wondered if Tom was half as frightened as he. 

Tom opened his mouth, but whatever he was going to say was cut off. The normal wooden planchette was twitching from its place by the side of the board, somehow seeming to itch to get back to the center. Tom let out the tiniest noise of disbelief, furrowing his brow and shaking his head. He looked to Thomas for answers (like he could even provide them) 

“Are you doing this?” Tom demanded, without a hint of anger. “Just… tell me now. Is this you?” 

“Tom.” Thomas muttered, his breath still visible in the air, “My hands… are on my lap.” 

Tom looked at Thomas’ lap, then seemed to realize exactly where he was looking and immediately looked away again, cheeks burning. Thomas wondered why. 

Nervous but incredibly excited to experiment more, Thomas reached out with a slow and deliberate hand to take up the regular planchette and place it back upon the center of the board. Tentative, unsure, Tom rejoined him with a grimace as if he was expecting the pain of a syringe. It took several long minutes, but after they passed the planchette moved again. Slow, and steady, it went to ‘hello’. 

“Hello.” Tom said, his nervous showing in his shaking voice, “Who are we talking to now? Is this Edward again?” 

But the planchette slid to ‘no’, and Tom paused. “then who is it?” 

The planchette twitched, unsure, then after about three minutes of silence it slid to ’S’. 

 

At first, Tom did not react. He looked confused, slightly bitter, tilting his head this way and that as he waited for whatever spirit they were talking to to make more sense. But Thomas had spoken with a spirit that went by the name of ’S’, and a terrible feeling of guilt and shame slid into his stomach as he slowly turned to look at Tom. To wait and see when it would register with him. 

“…S…” Tom said the word aloud without care. He looked at Thomas, caught his gaze, then grew pensive. 

“S.” Thomas whispered, suddenly feeling quite sorry for Tom in that moment. 

Tom looked back, eyes widening as his breath picked up just a hair. Thomas watched him in that moment like a hawk, nervous for what he might say or do next. Would he cry out? Would he grow enraged? Would he weep? 

“S-sybil?” Tom stuttered, voice toneless. “Sybil is that you?” 

The planchette twitched, its pointed tip turning slightly to the left before it slid to ‘yes’. As it reached its target a hush unlike any other descended upon the room. Before where there had been fear, now there was only sorrow. 

A strange sensation of longing never to be fulfilled.   
A memory of a woman in a white nurses cap, with nutmeg hair. 

Where Thomas saw her entering the dining room, Tom saw her through a sitting room window. Where Thomas saw her dolling out pills to the invalid, Tom saw her sitting in his car as he drove her back to town. Where Thomas saw her swollen and bruised from pregnancy waiting patiently for her first child, Tom saw her laying quiet and peaceful in their marriage bed… undisturbed by the crackling of their hearth. The year they’d spent together in Ireland a distant but beautiful memory. A time before fire, before loss, before pain. 

Before this. 

“Sybil…” Tom whispered, “If it’s really you, I have to know. Tell me somethin’ only we’d know.” 

And so the planchette took off. 

It drug from one letter to the other, creeping along with loving grace that only a woman’s touch could inherit, and for each word Thomas wrote with care till a name was spelled out on the page: _“Aodhan”_. 

Tom looked away as if burned, recoiling even though he clung to the planchette. Thomas watched his face intently, nervous that Tom might suffer some kind of fit from emotional stress. Tom sniffed, wiping tenderly at his eyes with his free hand. An ugly stab of pain filled Thomas’ chest as he realized Tom was crying. 

He’d never seen such emotional clarity before. Such sorrow without the muddle of denial. It was almost beautiful to watch. Entranced, Thomas could do nothing but remain stoic and silent as Tom sniffed, wiped his eyes again, then caught Thomas’ gaze. 

“S’the name we’d use had it been a boy.” Tom admitted, throaty, “Wasn’t, so…” Tom coughed, trying to clear his throat but it was to no avail, “Sybil wanted her to be-“ 

But the planchette was taking off again.   
Tom and Thomas watched entranced as it danced from one word to another- Thomas nearly forgetting to write till his senses caught up with him and he hastily scribbled down _“Siobhan”_. 

Tom let out the tiniest whimper, cupping his mouth with his hand. 

“We should stop.” Thomas whispered, fearful that they’d gone to far. This had only started out as a game— when had it gotten so terribly morbid? But Tom reacted violently, reaching out fast and grabbing Thomas’ shrinking hand to force his fingers onto the planchette. Thomas blushed, the heat of Tom’s fingers scalding his own freezing ones. His grip was powerful, commanding, and it wooed him though it was foolish to be moved by such mundane things. 

“For gods sake.” Tom whispered, his voice harsh but true, “Let me talk to my wife. M’love.” 

Thomas sat stunned as Tom slowly let go of his fingers. Privy to a moment best kept behind closed doors, Thomas sat absolutely silent as he watched Tom speak to Sybil— like they were only side by side. Like any moment she might walk around the door bearing a cup of tea and a smile… and he tried not to cry. 

Really. He did. 

“Sybil, I love you so.” Tom whispered, harsh, “Forgive me- I murdered you-“ 

The planchette moved to ‘no’. 

“But I did.” Tom argued, “T’were my child that ended your life.” 

The planchette did not move from ‘no’. 

“Were my sins-“ Tom started to say, but Thomas cut him off. 

“Let her talk.” He urged softly, and Tom fell silent as the planchette began to move across the board once again. They watched, entranced, as it once more returned to the sun. Just like that, despite there being no light in the room besides the nearly dead hearth, they were filled with an incredibly warmth from within. A reminder that they were loved, even if only from far away. 

“…She appreciates you, and loves you.” Thomas supplied, careful to be tender lest Tom be over stimulated, “She illuminates the way for you… She sees all.” 

The planchette moved, spurned on by the strength in Thomas’ word, and both men sat enraptured as the planchette suddenly spelled out a whole string of words. It was difficult to put them together one at a time; Thomas looked down at his page and had to count letters like a child might blocks, trying to figure out what on earth Sybil was saying. 

L-E-T-M-E-G-O. 

“Let me go.” Thomas murmured allowed. 

“I can’t.” Tom shook his head at once, “I love you so.” He said it without pause, a truth as old and ancient as the stones on which they stood. 

But Sybil was not done. She just kept talking, as full of ideas in death as in life.

“New Love.” Thomas said after counting the newly touched letters. 

“How could I ever love another the way I love you?” Tom demanded, “How, when you’re half my heart? You are the green of my wood, the fresh spring of my-“ 

But Tom’s poetic love poem was cut short by a sudden made twitching of the planchette like Sybil was growing impatient. Thomas could not blame her; he himself was growing impatient with Tom’s lyrical delights. 

T-W-I-N 

Tom and Thomas glanced at one another, utterly confused. Twin? What twin where? 

“I… I don’t understand.” Tom beseeched. 

But then the planchette moved away from the alphabet and into the numbers. It landed on the number ‘2’ and stayed there. What on earth did this mean? 

“Sybil, M’darlin-“ Tom protested. 

“Shh-“ Thomas cut him off. He wanted to know what Sybil was trying to say. 

The planchette now moved across the numbers with slow but graceful tact, and Thomas wrote them all down dutifully: 2, 3, 6, 4, 1, 1. 

“Two eight six four one one?” Thomas repeated allowed. “Twin… two eight six four one one… what on earth?” 

He racked his brain but found it lacking. He needed time, he needed data, he needed to understand what the numbers meant. 

But the planchette was not finished yet. It slid back to the alphabet and spelt the word ’N-A-M-E’. 

And then to ‘goodbye’. 

“No!” Tom cried out in dismay, “No, Sybil- please stay!” 

But how could you argue with a ghost- a face without a voice or even the skin to touch? Thomas watched, saddened, as Tom reached out for nothing- for thin air- groping at it as if to touch Sybil once more. But there was nothing there save for the stale stench of smoke from their gutted candles and Tom’s hand fell back to the table with a soft ‘thunk’. 

“… She’s tired, Tom.” Thomas consoled him. 

 

Tom looked to him in that moment as if he were the dearest friend in all the world. As if they’d known one another for decades and were brothers in their demands. 

“I gotta figure out what she meant.” Tom whispered, “I got to. Will you help me?” 

Thomas did not blink, did not waver in his resolution: “Yes”.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, thanks so much to everyone who is reading and reviewing. Please let me know if you have any questions or concerns.


	11. Be Our Guest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Larry Gray's dinner party serves up more than French King Crab.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright everyone, here we go. I hope you enjoy this whopper. Thank you to everyone who is reading and reviewing! The story is just going to get crazier now.

On any of her children’s birthdays, Thomas’ mother had had a ritual. 

She’d always been an early riser, having to feed a family of nine (herself included) on a middle class budget; she’d ferry around the kitchen, waking up her family with the smalls of black pudding and baked beans. On a birthday, however, she’d rise even earlier to first cook breakfast and then come into her child’s room to wake them and offer them a muffin only to brush their hair. 

She’d stop doing it for him when he was six. It has been his first wound. His first heartache. 

He could therefor remember his fifth birthday with intense clarity. He’d been awoken by his mother’s firm hands. She’d roused him from sleep only to kiss his brow and offer him a lemon poppyseed muffin… his favorite. Sitting upon her lap, he’d tucked in at once as she’d gone about combing his hair expertly with weatherbeaten fingers. It wasn’t hard to comb his hair- Margret’s had always been a tangle- but his mother had taken her time as Thomas had finished his muffin as sucked the crumbs from his fingers. 

_“There.”_ His mother had said upon finishing, _“Now try and stay decent for once in your life.”_

He’d been a mess before noon, of course, but it was the sentiment that had counted. 

 

Lord Grantham had decided (for whatever reason) that he wanted to go abroad. Now that all his children were married, he felt it almost dire that he too should experience some pleasure and so he’d booked passage on the _Angelica_ for France with Lady Grantham. They’d be a small party, only taking Bates and Baxter with them, but the uproar was still the same. While Lord Grantham ordered Bates to pack his finest, Lady Grantham wanted Baxter to learn some rudimentary French. This had resulted in Mr. Moseley coming up once again from the schoolhouse to sit with her in the back corner of the servants hall. Pressed almost side to side, they’d sit with heads bowed till the early hours of the morning. It was almost like time had no meaning when they were together. 

Lord Merton’s dinner with Larry Gray had been a difficult thing to schedule, what with Lord and Lady Grantham’s upcoming impromptu trip to France. In an attempt to pencil it in before they left, the party had ended up being blocked in the night before they left. They’d dine lavishly, go to bed, then get up and head out the next morning with Bates and Baxter. 

Thus, so it was that the servant’s had to contend both with a thirteen course dinner and an out-of-country trip with only two weeks to prepare. They’d practically become a Shakespearean comedy in their hassle. 

Carson, the elder statesman, had taken it upon himself to become the preparer of Lord and Lady Grantham’s trip. He’d therefore placed several calls to their house on the outskirts of Paris to order it cleaned and ready for presentation while likewise overseeing Baxter and Bates’ hard work to prepare the wardrobes. Shoes had to be cleaned, coats had to be mended, luggage had to be prepared for intense travel— and this was to say nothing of the servant’s themselves. Baxter had decided to buy a new cloche in happiness for her upcoming adventure. Bates had decided to sit with William by the fire and complain loudly that he was being parted from his wife and newborn child all for the sake of a ‘baguette’. 

Thomas had thus taken over the dinner, with Mrs. Patmore, Daisy, Andy, and Peter the hall boy underneath his full charge. Larry Gray was ridiculously pompous and arrogant, so nothing half-assed would do (particularly if this was supposed to be an ‘olive branch’ meal). Thomas had therefor pulled out all the best silver to set Andy and Peter on polishing duty while likewise fretting with Mrs. Patmore and Lady Grantham over what to feed the bastard. The meal was thirteen courses (they’d known this from the beginning) and would boast such features as french king crab and french turtle soup. 

Poor Lord Grantham was just itching to get to France apparently. 

If the atmosphere below stairs weren’t tense enough, Mrs. Hughes and Mr. Carson both on pins when it came to Thomas. He knew why but refused to comment on it even as, the morning after the seance with Tom, Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes came into Mr. Carson’s office to find Thomas pulling out the best silver for Andy and Peter to polish later that day. They were using the ‘majesty’ set, one that they only brought out for weddings, funerals, and high class dinners. In retrospect, if this ended up being a funeral dinner for Larry Gray when Lady Merton and Tom tore him into pieces, they at least wouldn’t have to change silver sets. 

Mrs. Hughes was pensive as she stood on the outskirts of the office, watching silently as Thomas took each piece of silver out to tally it on a list. Mr. Carson walked around his desk, sitting down to check the incoming mail for the day for bills and watching Thomas from behind. 

“What is that?” Mr. Carson finally asked, gesturing to Thomas’ left arm. High upon his arm almost to his shoulder there was a black band. Thomas had put it on early that morning when he’d rose. 

Thomas did not even turn, merely continuing to sort silver. God in heaven, Andy and Peter were going to be overwhelmed. He might have to help them. Then again, they did have over a week to finish. 

“For my mother.” Was Thomas’ calm reply. 

Carson and Mrs. Hughes were silent. Mrs. Hughes took off her hat to put it on Mr. Carson’s hat stand, shedding her coat as well. Thomas did not make to amend the quiet. He was still furious deep down for their having lied to him about having called Briarcliffe. 

“You cannot wear it for our company.” Mr. Carson reminded him sternly. “Given that the entire house is not in morning with you-“ 

“I’ll take it off before then.” Thomas had still not decided how many days he wanted to wear it. Maybe three. Maybe five. 

Five seemed about right. Five days for five birthdays that he’d received a muffin. Tit for tat, and all that. 

“… It is against policy for employees to read their own file.” Mrs. Hughes added sternly from the door. She came around Thomas, trying to catch his eye as he continued to sort silver. His grip flexed imperceptibly on the silver and his clipboard. “Even the butler-“ 

“They wouldn’t have let me go.” Thomas cut across. The sentence jumped from his throat, his tongue laying flat in his mouth, unable to stop the bitterness in his throat. “You do realize that, do you not.” 

“…What are you talking about?” Mrs. Hughes asked, tense. He turned, finally catching her eye. She flinched, seeing something in his face she did not like. 

“…When Briarcliffe found out what I was, they would not have let me go.” Thomas repeated, illustrating to his point. “They would have kept me forever. In a cage. They would have considered me mentally diseased. I hope you realize that.” 

Mrs. Hughes pursed her lips. 

“…You were becoming a burden.” Mr. Carson spoke up from the desk. “You forget we are not mental health professionals. His lordship wanted you cared for; he has connections at Briarcliffe and thought it best that you heal properly. We did not take such notions lightly.” 

Thomas turned fully around, glaring at Mr. Carson. 

“You would have damned me-“ Thomas whispered, “To a life in a cage.” 

“You would have damned yourself.” Carson corrected him, “I did not hold that meat cleaver to your neck.” 

Thomas bristled, turning back around to the snatch up a silver salt shaker and inspect it for damage. His grip was tight upon it- knuckles white. 

“This conversation is getting out of hand.” Mrs. Hughes warned them both. “We’ve put that time behind us, and we ought to move forward in hope. You are butler now, Thomas, and you are mentally stable. Neither Mr. Carson nor myself wanted to send you to Briarcliffe. That was why Dr. Kinsey was called to your aid. It was our final attempt to keep you out of a mental institution… and for what it’s worth… neither Mr. Carson nor myself were willing to let them keep you ‘forever’.” She said the word with dry derision. “We had a backup plan.” 

“What?” he asked, dull voiced and mildly curious. 

She did not answer him. Whatever the backup plan was, it was clearly not for him (or for his file) to know. 

He sighed, shoulders sagging as he sat down the salt shaker among the growing pile of high majesty silver. Mrs. Hughes was clearly still waiting for the final shoe to drop, searching his face constantly for some sign of anger or acceptance so that she could know which way to turn. 

“You… said you were proud of me in the file.” Thomas mumbled. “But you never said it to me.” 

Mrs. Hughes turned, looking to Mr. Carson. Her expression was clear; they’d obviously had this very same conversation and she’d taken Thomas’ stance. Mr. Carson shifted uncomfortably in his seat, refusing to answer Thomas’ statement. 

“Makes me wonder if you really are-“ Thomas admitted.

“I would not have given you the title of butler if I did not trust you.” Mr. Carson cut across. 

Was that the best he could hope for? It made him feel oddly miserable. Thomas continued to focus on his silver instead, careful not to catch Mrs. Hughes eye. She instead reached out to gently fix his ‘mourning’ armband so that it lay flat against his stiff livery without a crease. 

“I’m sure your mother would be very proud of you.” Mrs. Hughes offered softly. “If she could see you now.” 

“No.” Thomas corrected her. “No she wouldn’t have. She didn’t like me much. She stopped liking me when I was six.” 

“Oh you can’t be sure of that.” Mrs. Hughes urged him. 

“I can.” Thomas corrected her once again. 

“And how is that.” 

“Every time one of us had a birthday, she’d wake up early and give us a muffin and brush our hair.” Thomas admitted, slightly embarrassed to admit to such a fragile memory. “She stopped doing it for me when I was six… so that’s how I know.” 

Mrs. Hughes, ever the saint, tried for optimism on his dead mother’s behalf- “She might have been busy.” 

“I had six siblings. She never forgot their birthdays.” Thomas mumbled. “Eight years she forgot mine… if…” He coughed, trying to cover the ugly distress in his voice, “If I had seven children, I’d never forget one of their birthdays. They’d always get a muffin even if I… y’know..” Thomas threw out a hand trying to sum up the words, only to fail. 

“… Can’t see me hatin’ one of me own hypothetical children.” Thomas mumbled, for how could he ever hate a child of his own? It would be like hating Sybbie, George, or Marigold. No… quite impossible. He could sooner detach his skull from his spinal column. 

Mrs. Hughes patted him fondly upon the arm. 

 

The breakfast table was crammed with activity as servants high and low shoveled down their porridge and toast. As Thomas came into the room to take his place at the head of the table, everyone quickly scrambled from their seats including Bates though he had to lean against the back of his chair. He’d told them not to do this, several times in fact, but it was just damn habit by now and none of them could break the trail. He took his seat, and everyone sat down again to resume eating. Thomas sipped his morning coffee, black with no cream or sugar to go through the morning mail. There was nothing for the other servants but there was a letter for Mrs. Patmore from Mr. Mason. Daisy was making rounds about the table serving tea, and Thomas caught her attention as she filled up his own cup. 

“Give this to Mrs. Patmore.” 

“Yes, Mr. Barrow.” She replied, taking the letter and putting it in her apron pocket. 

As he began to eat toast, he was momentarily thrown off guard by Baxter who spoke up from his left. 

“…Why do you have that black arm band on?” She asked, a frown creasing her normally calm and placid face. Thomas looked down to his mourning band, catching her eye. 

“Oh.” Thomas muttered, coughing. He took a sip of coffee to finish his cup. “Well….” 

Dr. Kinsey had called for emotional honesty. He just had to wonder how many people were going to laugh themselves silly when they realized what he was doing. Bitter, Thomas focused on his porridge as he spoke. 

“My mother died.” Thomas said.   
Baxter bristled.   
Several voices at the table fell silent. 

“I’m sorry to hear that.” Andy spoke up from down at the end of the table next to the day maids and the hall boy Peter. 

“Mm.” Thomas dabbed at his lips with his napkin, “It’s a rather long story. She died almost twenty years ago but no one ever told me. I found out a night ago and… I was very upset. So I asked Mr. Carson if I might wear a band for a few days. I’ll take it off before the dinner party.” He added, resuming eating his porridge. 

 

“I’m sorry to hear she died.” Anna spoke up from her plate; her tone was far from emotional, “Even if it was a while ago.” 

“Why weren’t you informed?” Andy wondered, shocked that he should be left in the dark on such a sensitive manor. Thomas noted that Baxter was still dead silent…. she’d no doubt known his mother was dead. “Seems like something you should be allowed to know.” 

Thomas drummed his fingers upon the table.   
He could lie or he could tell the truth. God how he wished it were easy like before. 

“…I was disowned.” He admitted bitterly. Now only the maids at the far end were chattering; everyone else looked tense to their sitting partner, waiting for the other shoe to drop. 

“She… found a permanent solution to the temporary problem of my shame.” Thomas muttered into his porridge, but could not help glancing bitterly at Baxter who looked pensive as she pushed her own porridge about her bowl. “Which I suppose you knew.” 

“Yes.” Baxter did not hide her guilt, “Yes, I knew.” 

“…Why didn’t you tell me?” Thomas asked; he could not help but feel hurt. Surely Baxter had realized one day he’d find out…. or had she thought to keep him in the dark forever? 

“To be honest, I didn’t know how to.” She admitted, glancing up to catch his eye. Normal conversation had resumed about the table now, with only Anna and Bates still listening in. This was common where Thomas was concerned. He was no longer constantly fighting with Bates but they still did not like each other and it was difficult to let old habits die hard. He supposed they were waiting for him to slip up and say something shoddy. 

“Anyway, I thought maybe you were better off not knowing, given the circumstances.” Baxter murmured, finishing off her porridge to start on her buttered toast. 

“Did you go to the funeral?” He asked. 

“Yes.” Baxter said, sadly. “It was very well done.” 

“Who took care of my siblings?” Thomas asked. 

“Your Aunt Rachel.” She said. Thomas nodded; Aunt Rachel had been his mother’s sister, and the mother of his cousin Edrick in Bombay. Aunt Rachel had been one of the few to be relatively kind to him in his childhood. He was glad she’d been the one to end up taking care of the children. “And my mother too. They all pitched in. The children weren’t for want.” 

Well then. That was that 

“Anyways, best push on.” Thomas mumbled, unsure of what else he could even say anymore. 

“Best.” Baxter agreed, and she looked oddly proud of him as she sat her tea cup down. “Mr. Moseley has asked me out to lunch today. I was wondering if I could go?” 

“Why are you asking for my permission?” Thomas wondered. What did she think he was, her father? Honestly she was a grown woman she could do what she wanted- 

“You’re the butler.” She said. Thomas froze mid-bite of toast. 

“Well-“ He coughed, swallowing painfully, “Not- not all the way. Carson’s still around. So, best ask him.” 

Little did he want to tell her it still terrified him that he was technically honestly in charge. The last time he’d been the butler for a week it had been a disaster— no one had respected him and that insufferable Gwen had had her stupid little luncheon. 

“Thomas!” Baxter chortled, amazed at his meekness. 

“Yes, go, sure-“ Thomas spluttered, just eager for her to shuttup so he could get on with his toast already. Dear god how did men enjoy the company of women- didn’t they tire of all the talking? 

“Did you check with her ladyship?” Anna asked. Thomas nearly choked on his toast again, realizing that he had not even thought to consider Lady Grantham’s needs as the butler. 

“…Just ask Carson.” He said to Baxter who rolled her eyes and glanced at Anna as if to say _‘Can you believe this?’_

Anna giggled into her teacup, keeping her thoughts to herself. She wasn’t the only one. Even Andy was grinning but Thomas shut him up cold sure enough- 

“Oh I’d be very careful not to scoff at me.” Thomas warned him, a finger in the air, “You’re going to be polishing the entire majesty silver set with Peter today.” 

Both Andy and Peter looked gray with horror. Thomas assuaged their fears at once. “Don’t worry, I’ll pitch in and help-“ 

“You will not.” 

Once again, everyone rose up as Carson entered the room. He paced behind Thomas’ chair to set his hand upon the wood, urging for everyone to take their seats. As everyone sat down, Carson leaned a bit over Thomas’ chair to speak to him. “It is not your place to help them polish their silver.” He warned, “You have your own silver to polish.” and this was quite true. Only the butler could be trusted with the crest sets. 

“Yes, but all hands to the pump, surely.” Thomas tried to reason, for there were fifty pieces in the entire majesty set. 

“Do not doubt the steadiness of your staff’s hands, Thomas.” Carson urged him, taking a cup of coffee from Daisy as she passed to toast everyone sitting at the table, “You can push them, they won’t break.” 

“Mr. Carson-“ Ms. Baxter spoke up, taking advantage of the sudden opportunity of his commanding presence, “Mr. Moseley has asked me to lunch, I was wondering if I could go?” 

“Thomas is the butler, ask him.” Carson said. 

Baxter looked at Thomas with dry derision. Thomas stuttered into his teacup. “I- I said yes.” 

“But best to check with her ladyship?” Anna reminded him from the second time. He suddenly wanted to chuck his teacup at her. 

Carson looked at him, and Thomas heaved a sigh to rise up from his chair. He’d have to go upstairs and seek an audience with Lady Grantham before she was even out of bed- but Carson took him by the shoulder and forced him into his seat. Thomas stared up at him, unsure. “What is Lady Grantham doing today?” 

“…Nothing.” Thomas said, for Lady Grantham had been downstairs last night to speak with Mrs. Patmore and had conveyed nothing of importance to him while giving him the preliminary notes for the upcoming dinner. 

“She’s told you as such.” Carson confirmed. 

“Yes, Mr. Carson.” 

“Thus…?” Carson drifted off. 

Thomas pursed his lips, cursing his own foolishness. “Thus I have checked with her ladyship and she’s perfectly fine with it— yes, Ms. Baxter you can go.” 

Baxter grinned and finished her tea; Anna snickered into her cup again. She wasn’t the only one again- several of the day maids were giggling. 

“You would do well not to snicker at the butler!” Carson warned them all. The maids shut up at once. 

 

The day passed with ready calm despite the upcoming insanity. Bates and Anna were busy all day mending shoes and coats, with Anna taking over Baxter’s mending as she went out for lunch with Moseley. When she returned she looked oddly pale and claimed illness. Thomas was more than happy to let her spend the rest of the day in bed, thinking she must have caught something on her walk. It was still snowing, after all. Anna cared to both Lady Grantham and Lady Mary that night, though Lady Grantham was easy and did not press Anna for much attention. Poor Andy and Peter on the other hand were practically panting like dogs by the end of their polishing regime, whimpering for a break so that Thomas gave them one despite Carson’s warning not to worry. The pair of them took it in the back area, with Andy smoking a cigarette and letting Peter bum one. Thomas suddenly realized he hadn’t smoked in months and wondered why. 

One thing was for certain, he could breath easier and didn’t cough near as much. He’d be a fool not to make the connection. 

The next day passed with the same amount of ease, with the only odd occurrence being that Daisy was now moving to Yew Tree Farm. She had very little in the way of belongings, but packed them up all the same to take the wagonette into the hills. Thomas saw her off as was customary- for though she wasn’t technically leaving employment Mrs. Patmore was still oddly sad. Thomas loaded up Daisy’s two valises into the back of the wagonette, helping her up as she took her seat next to Mr. Mason who had brought his fastest horses to help them on their journey. 

“You’ll take the bus every day?” Thomas wondered- god she’d be leaving early in the morning. 

“I don’t mind.” Daisy assured him. 

“Don’t be late.” Thomas warned, for Daisy was irreplaceable in the kitchen’s. Mrs. Patmore would be up to her elbows if she had only poor Gertie for company. 

“I won’t be!” She said with a huff, “A fine way to say goodbye-“ 

“Why would I say goodbye?” He demanded, sneering at Daisy even as she rolled her brown eyes to the heavens to ask for strength, “I’m seeing you in four hours.” And with that he smacked the wood of the wagonette. Mr. Mason clicked the reigns and the pair of them took off like a princess in her chariot at the end of a fairytale. Thus closed the song of Daisy Mason- 

Though absolutely nothing had changed and she’d still be back for dinner. 

But, as things at Downton Abbey often went, the melodious mood did not last. 

Thomas returned to the servant’s hall intent on checking up with Andy and Peter who were once again polishing the majesty silver and no doubt crying rivers over it when he spotted Baxter acting rather out of character by the fireplace. Instead of being hard at work on something for her ladyship, she was instead perched with her elbows upon her knees, gazing intently into the fire. She seemed morose and yet aware- not sad but not happy either. It was the strangest thing Thomas had ever seen and he wondered if she was ill. 

“Are you ill?” He asked. She started, coming to from her reverie and looking around at him in the doorway. She wasn’t alone in the room. The Bates’ were at the servant’s table working on pieces for their prospective employers. The both glanced at Baxter who gave everyone a tight lipped smile though it didn’t last. 

“I’m just thinking.” She admitted. 

“About?” Thomas leaned against the hearth of the servant’s fireplace, refusing to let Baxter get off the hook. She had something on the brain and no mistake; he wanted to know what it was. 

“About love.” She said, looking back at the fire. 

“Blimey-“ Thomas snorted, looking away. “You don’t want for much, do you?” 

“I suppose I should tell you since you’re butler-“ 

“Tell me what?” Thomas cut across, suddenly sensing disaster afoot. If she told he he was stepping out with Moseley he was going to hurl into the first waste basket he saw. The idea of them kissing made his skin crawl- 

Baxter looked up at him, caught his eye, and gave him another small smile: “Mr. Moseley has asked me to marry him.” 

Oh. 

“I said yes.” Baxter finished. 

Oh boy. 

“Oh!” Anna clapped her hands in delight, eyes sparkling with wedding bliss, “That’s wonderful!” 

“Congratulations.” Bates added, and though he was no where near as mirthful as his wife he was still smiling. 

Thomas stared at Baxter, his mouth slightly open.   
What uh… what should he say? What was the word again?   
Con… con- something. Constipation?   
Congregation?   
Conversion? 

“What are we congratulating?” Mrs. Patmore poked her head in from the kitchen, ever the one to eavesdrop. 

“Ms. Baxter has just accepted Mr. Moseley’s proposal!” Anna declared, “They’re going to be married!” 

“Oh!” Mrs. Patmore was all a-flutter, dewey eyed and red faced as she beamed at the others. “Let me put out a dish or two! This is fantastic!” She marched away to rumadge through the ice box. 

You know who really needed to know about this? Tom- NO. His _Lordship_. His _Lordship_ needed to know about this. Yes, that’s right. He was the butler, he ought to take care of such things. 

“I’ll tell his lordship and her ladyship.” Thomas said with as much enthusiasm as he could muster. “Excuse me!” And with that he headed out of the room to the stairwell. About half way up to the main floor he started cursing himself for not offering Baxter his congratulations but there was no point in complaining now. No, he’d gone and botched up another social transaction again. He’d nearly said ‘constipation’ out loud too. 

As he hit the main floor, he exited out through the green baize door to see Tom strolling towards the library. He stopped when he saw Thomas, turning on his heel to walk back in the direction that he’d come so that the pair of them could meet up in the middle of the hall. 

“Where’s Lord and Lady Grantham?” Thomas asked. 

“Talking a walk with Tiaa.” Tom declared. 

“Ah. Excuse me.” Thomas turned for the door and headed out. Tom just followed behind him.   
“I can’t figure it out!” Tom was clearly distressed, wracking his brains for a number system that would fit their message from Sybil. “ 286411… Why numbers? What does it mean? There’s no date, no method… it doesn’t mean anything! It had to be a fluke-“ 

“Tom, let it rest.” Thomas said as they stepped out onto the lawn. Snow covered the entire area in a sheet of white- Christ it was cold! Lord and Lady Grantham were sitting beneath a far oak tree with Tiaa rolling at their feet, “The answer will make itself apparent in time. Don’t stress over it-“ 

“How can I not?” Tom demanded, “When she tells me to move on and gives me weird words like ‘twin’ and ‘name’ to mull over. How can anyone be named twin?” 

“I dunno.” Thomas was now the one wracking his brains as they walked- the fresh air was doing him good. “Maybe it’s an acronym: T-w-i-n. The … witty invalid neighbor-“ he pulled that one right out of his arse. “I don’t know.” 

“What are you saying?” Tom asked, cocking an eyebrow, “Me and Lord Merton are destined to be together?” 

“I don’t know, Tom!” Thomas exclaimed, rather exhausted by the whole riddle. “Excuse me.” 

He kept walking, hoping that he might be able to leave Tom behind. He needed time to think, time to gather himself. He didn’t want Tom to know that he was distressed over Baxter’s engagement or why. It honestly had nothing to do with Moseley- I mean the man was boring and about as complex as a child’s jig saw… but it did have everything to do with the warm reception. Thomas would never know what it felt like to be the center of such delight. Anna and Bates would not offer him congratulations. Mrs. Patmore would not put out dishes. The would gawk, glare, be horrified— they might even call the police. 

It just made Thomas angrier, made him walk faster. With every step he took, he crunched deep into the snow. His hands were started to burn from the cold. 

“What if it’s a code-!” Tom caught up, right on Thomas’ heels. Instead of being annoyed however, Tom was proving a useful distraction from Thomas’ sudden pain. 

“To a lock?” He surmised. 

“Exactly.” 

“That’d be a very complex code. Six digits?” 

“But it still could be a code- maybe there’s a chest hidden somewhere.” 

Now they were straying into the land of folly, “Tom, I go into the attics and cellars constantly. There is no chest above or below ground with a lock like that on this property.” 

“What if it’s coordinates then! Maybe we have to dig it up.” 

“Tom, Coordinates would be a massive set of numbers. The coordinates for our location are: 54°10'18.0"N 1°26’05.4”W- “ 

“How in the hell do you know that!?” 

“I read it once in a book.” 

“Oh you read too much!” Tom was growing agitated now. “Get outside, take a breath of fresh air, have a beer, put some grass stains on your trousers, kiss a wild farm boy-“ 

“Thank you Whitman. That was an impressive poetic display. You should get that published.” 

“Why don’t you kiss my arse-“ But they were coming up fast on Lord and Lady Grantham so that they had to stop their lewd talk at once or be discovered. Lady Grantham looked around with a tired smile, her large winter hat rimmed in white fur. The snow was slightly less thick underneath the oak tree but it was still incredibly cold. 

“Tom!” Lady Grantham greeted him first. 

“Beautiful day out.” Lord Grantham declared. 

“Thomas has news for you both.” Tom said, and both Lord and Lady swiveled around on their bench in order to face Thomas better. 

“Don’t say it’s Larry Gray-“ Lady Grantham said in dismay. Thomas waved his hand in negation. 

“Hardly, M’lady.” He assured her at once. They still had some time to kill where that matter was concerned, “No, Ms. Baxter has just informed me of Mr. Moseley’s intentions. They are to be wed.” 

Lady Grantham gasped, eyes sparking with clear and sudden delight— there it was again, that ugly jealous pain in his belly, “Oh! But that’s wonderful!” 

“We ought to let her move into his cottage.” Lord Grantham said, beaming at the prospect of the happy couple. 

“I’ll talk to her about it tonight when I dress.” Lady Grantham said, and the pair of them clasped hands happily. 

Happy, happy, happy. Everyone was happy. 

“Very good M’lady, M’lord.” Thomas said, and he bowed to walk away. 

For a while, Thomas and Tom walked in complete silence, the only sound between them the snow crunching underfoot. As they reached the front doors again, Thomas and and Tom both beat their shoes against the outside of the stood to clear the of snow. The whole time, Tom watched him, perhaps waiting for something to flicker across his face close to joy or mutual agreement at the very least. 

But Thomas had nothing to offer, nothing to give. This would never be his lot in life. 

“Why are you so cold?” Tom spoke up again, “I though you and Baxter were friends.” 

“We are.” Thomas said. In truth Baxter was more like his sister at this point. 

“So, shouldn’t you be celebrating?” Tom asked, but then recognition dawned on his face and he rolled his eyes. Un-eager to have this particular conversation, Thomas started heading for the green baize door but Tom just kept following, “Ah, but of course. You’re jealous.” 

_Yes_ , Thomas thought bitterly, _That’s exactly what I am_. 

“Oh yes-“ He tried to deny it with a snarky retort, “I’ve been pining over Mr. Moseley this whole time. You’ve caught me red handed.” 

“No-“ Tom would not be deterred, “But you have been pining over a ghost.” 

“So have you, Whitman!” Thomas snapped. 

“Look, let’s have another go with the ouija!” Tom urged, jumping from their new topic back to the original with the speed of light, “We need more information.” 

“You need more information.” Thomas corrected, “I need to console Edward after you angered him.” 

“Your Edward has a hot temper-“ 

“He doesn’t like being upstaged by a drunk paddy!” 

“Oh! So I’m a drunk paddy!?” 

Thomas reached the green baize door and yanked it open, intent on leaving Tom behind, “You’re a drunk something-“ 

But as he tried to close the door, Tom caught it with his foot, jerked it back open, and followed Thomas into the servant’s stairwell. Thomas whipped around, irritated. 

“What are you doing?” He demanded at once as Tom closed the door, “Stay up here, where you belong!” 

“Why are you jealous?” Tom asked, full outright to his face. Thomas flushed, turned away and stomped downstairs. Tom followed right after him. 

“Why are you jealous?!” 

“Tom, I told you, I’m not jealous!” They hit the bottom and were suddenly clustered by a group of maids being lead by Mrs. Hughes. She watched them go past, gawking at their squabbling. 

“But you are-!” Tom rounded the corner after Thomas, following him back into Mr. Carson’s office, “You always get jealous when someone else has a better time than you. Look at Gwen! Look at Bates- and even me! When I first married Sybil you hated me!” 

Thomas slammed the door to Carson’s office in Tom’s face.   
For a moment he had peace and quickly sat behind Mr. Carson’s desk to take a long breath and run his hands over his face. 

Then Tom yanked the door open and followed him right in. Thomas groaned into his hands as Tom shut the door. 

“Go away.” Thomas turned away from Tom, grabbing the first file he saw and shuffling through it. “I have work to do.” 

It was a list of wines that Mr. Carson wanted to decant. Goody. 

But that didn’t get him anywhere- Tom swiveled Thomas’ chair back around with commanding hands and took the file from his hands. Unable to escape, Tom pinned him in the chair, a hand on each arm rest so that Thomas was officially locked in an interrogation stance. 

“Why are you jealous?” Tom asked. 

“I told you-“ Thomas tried. Tom just leaned in closer- they were almost nose to nose. Thomas could feel Tom’s breath upon his cheeks. “I told you, I’m not-“ 

“Why.” Tom would not let him get way. 

“I-“ 

“Don’t lie-“ 

“Because I want it!” Thomas cried out angrily, shoving Tom back so that he had to let go of Thomas’ arm rests or fall over, “Okay?! I want something of my own is that so unthinkable?!” 

Tom was not perturbed by his shouting, “So then get something of your own and stop hating others for being happy-“ 

“Oh I see,” Thomas sneered, quite bitter. He crossed his arms defiantly over his chest, “It’s that easy is it? I just waltz out of this house and find me a nice proper country girl to take on-“ 

“Who said anything about a girl?” Tom demanded, “Go find yourself some burly sailor-“ 

But this just made Thomas angrier. Despite Tom’s assurances, the fact of the matter was that even if— by some insane miracle— he found a man to love him they could never be happy. They could never get married, or have a house, or have children. They could do nothing but hide all their lives (and that was if they were lucky!)… either they hid or they suffered. There was no other way. 

“Don’t you dare talk to me like it’s easy!” Thomas snarled at Tom, for the first time in a good long while truly angry at the man, “Like you know anything about the struggles I face!” 

Tom said nothing for a moment, allowing Thomas to cool, to regain himself. When he finally did speak, he did not do so in an accusatory tone and Thomas was thankful. 

“… So maybe I don’t.” Tom conceded. “But I do care for you and I want you to be happy… Tell me how to make you happy.” 

He’d never been asked such a thing before. It quite stumped him. Thomas sagged in his swivel chair, slowly turning away till he was facing Carson’s desk. The wine file was before him and nothing more. He stowed the file away in a cabinet beneath him, burying his head in his hands. 

The truth of the matter was that he didn’t know an answer… and that was a sad reality to live with. 

“Leave me alone.” Thomas mumbled into his hands. “I can never be happy Tom. Never.” 

For a moment there was only silence, and Thomas wondered if Tom would honestly leave him now. If he would grow tired of Thomas’ eternal pessimism. But then, foot falls could be heard upon the floorboards and there came a heavy warm weight upon his shoulders. Tom took Thomas’ shoulders in hand and squeezed them tenderly, almost massaging him. 

“…Tonight.” Tom whispered in his ear, a promise between the two of them. “Midnight. I’ll bring the whiskey.” 

“Good day, Mr. Branson.” Thomas whispered into his hands. Tom’s hands slipped, reaching under to touch his chin. Thomas shied away, unwilling to be happy. 

“Hey.” Tom murmured in his ear. “Hey you. Don’t smile.” 

Thomas glared at Tom dully. Tom, however, was dead serious. 

“Don’t-!” He warned, a finger in Thomas’ face, “Don’t you dare smile. No matter what you do, Thomas. No smiling. Do you hear me? I don’t want to see a single-!” 

But Thomas was starting to snigger. Tom grabbed him by the shoulder’s again, wrangling him back and forth. Thomas was almost laughing outright. 

Tom broke away from him ruffling his hair. Sticky with pomade, his tousled hair stuck up at all odd angles as Tom headed for the door. 

“Don’t forget!” Tom wagged a finger, “Bring your touchy boyfriend!” 

“Get out!” Thomas yowled at him, but he was grinning now.” 

Tom grinned, opening the door and stepping outside to close it to. But right at the last second he stuck his hand in and wiggled his fingers like he was a ghostly apparition. 

_“Thomas….”_ Tom moaned in a wavering tone. _“Thomas! Snoooog me!!”_

Thomas grabbed the first thing he saw- a box full of pencils- and chucked it hard at the door. It clattered just by Tom’s hand and he quickly yanked his fingers back inside to shut the door all the way. 

“Lord-“ Thomas shuddered to himself, returning his gaze to Mr. Carson’s many file cabinets. 

 

The day passed calmly, though there was much to do over Baxter and Moseley’s engagement. Thomas, in an attempt to not look like an asshole, offered that Moseley should come up for dinner that night. Baxter had accepted at once, beaming as she took up the phone and called her ‘lover’ to her side. Moseley and Baxter were besieged upon from all directions by well wishers, and Mrs. Patmore offered out a splendid downstairs dinner that night of a whole roasted chicken with sprigs of rosemary to wreath it. 

They drank wine, and talked till near midnight, delighted in their upcoming marriage. Through it all, Thomas barely said more than four words though he made sure that all of them were positive in nature. Mostly he spoke to Baxter, wishing her well… though he did a ‘congratulations’ to Mr. Moseley just for good measure. 

As one by one the servants went to bed whether that be upstairs or in a cottage, Thomas found himself the lone straggler downstairs, in the dark. He considered the ouija board before him, how the waxed wood gleamed in the fire and moonlight. How it really wasn’t much more than a piece of wood and a bit of paint. What made it the conduct for spirits? What gave it the power to talk to the dead? 

“So we’re going to do this without candles?” 

Thomas looked up and around. There was Tom in the doorway, holding a bottle of whiskey and a shot glass along with his trusty notepad. He grinned at Thomas, toasting him. 

Thomas sat up straighter in his chair and pulled his silver lighter out of his pocket, using it to light the candles remaining on the table from the servant’s pre-wedding banquet. Tom drug out the chair next to him putting his goods upon the table to crack open the seal on the bottle of whiskey. 

“So, I brought a new shot glass.” He declared, “Think you can keep Edward from breaking this one?” 

“That’s if he chooses to come back.” Thomas reminded him. Tom tilted his head from side to side, weighing up the odds. He poured a shot glass for Thomas and offered him the cup but Thomas shook his head. 

He didn’t feel much like drinking tonight. 

“Come on.” Tom leaned in, wreathing the back of Thomas’ chair with his arm to push the shot glass to his chest, “It’s a tradition.” 

“I’m not in the mood for a drink.” Thomas said softly. “I have nothing to drink for.” 

Tom reached around and took the whiskey back from Thomas, tossing it into the fire without so much as saying a word. The flames jumped, momentarily turning a wild pink before settling back down. It was so unlike him that Thomas had to comment on it. 

“Not like you to waste whiskey.” Thomas said. Tom shrugged. 

If you won’t drink, neither will I.” He declared. It was one of the nicest things anyone had ever done for him… to deny themselves pleasure in solidarity. 

Thomas took the dripping shot glass and polished it with his blue handkerchief, turning it upside down upon the board to warm it up with Tom. They pushed it around twice, using their pointer fingers, and when it settled in the center both waited silent to see who would speak. 

They waited perhaps half an hour in absolute silence. It would have been conducive to call out, perhaps, but neither seemed willing to speak. Just as Tom would not drink whiskey, Thomas would not call for ghosts. They would sit together, share together, and whatever came… came. 

Then, as if pulled from the very depths of an other wordly well, an odd energy filled the room and the planchette began to twist. It drifted, dried, and then came to rest on ‘hello’. 

“… Is this Sybil?” Tom asked. The planchette slid north to ‘yes’. “Sybil, m’darlin. What do your numbers mean?” 

They watched, Thomas poised at the ready to jot down notes. Sybil took her time, perhaps not having enough energy to move fast as she slowly spelled the word ‘book’. 

“Book…” Tom repeated out loud, “What book?” 

N-U-M-B-E-R the planchette declared. 

“Number book… a math book?”   
The planchette slid to ‘no’. 

“An accountants book?”   
It did not waver. 

“A map? Like coordinates?”   
Still a negative. 

“Numerology?” Thomas spoke up, for in the army he’d heard of codes based off ancient number systems. The planchette quivered, then slid to ‘yes’. 

“Numerology!” Tom was buoyant in his praise, using his spare hand to clap Thomas warmly upon the back. Thomas noted that though the time for joy had passed, Tom did not remove his hands. Instead, his fingers remained lightly touching Thomas on the back between the shoulder blades… he rested his arm along the back of Thomas’ chair. 

“You’re a brilliant man.” Tom declared, “So… numerology.” He smiled, looking at Thomas. He blinked, “… What the hell is numerology.” 

Thomas tittered, unable to keep from laughing. Unlike before with Edward, the temperature did not drop. Indeed it felt oddly warm.. comfortable. Like they were sitting in a hot bath together. 

“Numerology is a belief system.” Thomas explained with care, smiling at Tom, “It’s something akin to divination… you draw connections between number and events.” 

“So this is an event— no a name!” Tom recalled from their prior seance. “Christ, I’ve got work to do. I bet Robert’s got a book in the library.” 

But as delighted as Tom was getting, Thomas was starting to grow somber again. Sybil was calm, placated, but what about Edward? Where was he? Had he given up on Thomas for good, just like all the other men in his life? 

“Thomas?” Tom noticed he was blue. Thomas shook his head, unwilling to let his shifting moods ruin the seance with Sybil. Sybil, however, was happy to help. She slid the planchette to the sun.

“…Is that for me?” Thomas mused. The planchette slid to ‘yes’. He smiled, sensing Sybil’s warmth. 

“… I don’t feel appreciated.” Thomas admitted, sadly. “Is Edward there?”   
After a hesitant pause, the planchette slid to ‘no’. 

Thomas shifted in his chair, fighting with the internal distress he was starting to feel Tom watched his every move, eyes locked on Thomas’ face. 

“Is he angry at me?” Thomas wondered. The planchette did not waver from ‘no’. 

“Is he angry at me?” Tom asked. Thomas caught his eye and found him pensive. 

The planchette slid to ‘yes’. This was hardly surprising. 

“Why is Edward angry at me?” Tom asked. Once more, the planchette was moving towards the numbers. Thomas copied meticulously as Sybil spelt out: 3645. 

“So… this is the reason Edward is angry at me?” Tom mused, “Is it a verb?”   
The planchette slid to ‘no’. Tom’s brow furrowed; he turned to Thomas again, this time confused. 

“Well I’m lost.” Tom muttered, “Was it because I was drunk?” 

“Drunk is five letters, that was four.” Thomas murmured. Tom raised up his hand to count, frowning as he eventually held up five fingers. 

The planchette was moving again, both watched waiting for a new message. 

W-A-T-C-H-O-U-T she spelt. Thomas snorted, wondering what Edward was planning from beyond the grave. If he meant to pick a fight with Tom for drinking the pair of them would be squabbling for the rest of Tom’s natural life. 

“Why?” Tom wondered. Sybil once more turned to numbers. “Ah, Sybil-! Can’t you just say the words? Why are you giving us so many puzzles-“ 

“Hush and let her talk.” 

“She’s not talking, she’s garbling numbers!” Tom was getting impatient. Thomas refused to give sway, copying down Sybil’s numbers: 31997. Now they had three puzzles to solve, and had no tools at their disposal besides the knowledge that it was numerology. 

“…My god.” Thomas sighed dropping his pen to rub at his tired eyes. “We’ve got to do, Tom.” 

“Don’t worry.” Tom scratched gently at the back of Thomas’ back, a soothing repetitive gesture, “I’ll find a book.” 

~*~

True to his word, Tom spent the following week desperately combing through every inch of Robert’s library. 

Robert was a book nerd, for lack of a better term. He had books on everything, biographies, war volumes, history texts, and enough fiction to pave a road from Downton to Ripon. Some of the books were very old and kept beneath glass, more for looking than for touching. Some were family books, things passed down in the Crawley line for centuries. Some were oddities, like a bound leather tomb that showed the hand written accounts of every servant that had ever lived or died in the abbey’s walls, along with births and deaths of family members. It was no surprise that Tom found all three Crawley sisters were born in Robert and Cora’s bed. What was odder, Robert and his sister Rosamund were both born in the same bed as well, along with a third baby that while having its sex listed as a girl had apparently died the same day it was born and was never named. 

Likewise Robert’s father, the prior Earl had died in the bed. It was almost morbid to think about the fact that Robert and Cora were happy to sleep there. 

Giving up on the large library proper, Tom had to then move on to the small library, slightly worried he would not be able to find anything on a metaphysical topic like ‘numerology’. Where would they go next? Maybe a library in York or even London, though Tom did not fancy the trip. He wanted answers now damnit! 

As Tom read, Robert and Cora packed for France. By the time it was the day before Larry’s dinner, the whole house was stuffed into a valise. They apparently planned to stay for a month, traveling from Paris to the south of France where they could enjoy beach scenes without the cold of Normandy. For some reason Tom was looking forward to the upcoming quiet, where Mary and Henry would no doubt journey back and forth to London leaving him often at home alone. He imagined himself being with Thomas without the fear of wary eyes. Maybe they’d take tea in the library or walk around the estate. They might be able to sit in Robert’s small library together, reading and sitting in silence together as a fire crackled in the hearth. He found himself yearning for the next time he’d see Thomas. For the next moment they’d be alone long enough to have a conversation that didn’t begin with _“Mr. Barrow”_ and end in _“Very good sir, I’ll fetch that for you promptly.”_

As Tom combed Robert’s small library, intent on finding something to do with the metaphysical world around them, he perched himself on a rolling ladder and read high up in the rafters. So far he had found slap dab nothing, save for a curious book that mentioned palmistry. Tom had gotten sidetracked, comparing the lines of his own palm to the lines in the book, wondering if there was any merit in it. He then found a book on name meanings, and rifled through it to discover the meaning of his own name. It was no surprise to him that ‘Tom’ was a shortened form of ‘Thomas’, but oddly enough was also Greek with a root in ‘innocence and purity’. He’d never found himself much of either. He was suddenly distracted from his wonderings by Robert who entered the library along with Andy. The footman bore a tea platter, laid out with cups, kettle, and tiny sandwiches. Robert chortled to find Tom practically touching the ceiling with his head. 

“What the devil are you looking for man?” Robert joked, Tom closed the book shut with a snap and put it back in its original spot, “You’ve been scouring my books all week.” 

“Nothing really.” Tom tried for vague answers, unsure of how Robert would react to hearing he was searching for numerology. “Just something new to read?” 

“Anything in particular?” Robert would not be put off. Tom watched as Andy expertly poured a cup of tea and offered it to Robert along with a few lemon cookies on a fine china saucer. 

Tom leaned precariously upon his sliding ladder, head in his hands. “What about numerology?” Tom mused, “I hear it’s interesting.” 

Robert just smiled, dabbing one of his cookies into his tea before munching on it. “That’ll be in the far left tower.” Robert pointed to the opposite side of the room past where Andy was standing guard over the kettle and sandwiches. 

Tom leapt from the rolling ladder, pouncing back onto the floor and at once pushing the ladder over to Robert’s offered spot. Intent on the chase he climbed right back up and began searching again. 

He didn’t have to look for long: The books were alphabetized by title, and sure enough between _“Mystical Concepts of the Orient”_ and _“Oracles of the Greek Isles”_ there lay several books entitled with ’N’. One nearly the end was _“Numerology”_. Tom yanked it out at once, so victorious he wanted to punch his fist into the air. 

“I’ve seen you’ve become friendly with Barrow.” Robert noted. Tom shrugged, opening up his new book to start scanning its contents. Jesus… there was alot to learn. 

“Oh yes.” Tom mused, talking without really thinking, “He’s a wonderful person.” 

Robert pursed his lips, sipping gently upon his tea before saying, “I shouldn’t have allowed it to go so far. I did him a grave disservice.” 

Tom glanced up, curious. What was Robert talking about? 

“What do you mean?” Tom asked, momentarily closing his book so as to focus fully on Robert. Robert reached out to pat the sofa beside him, gesturing for Andy to pour another cup of tea. 

“Come down here.” Robert said, “I’ll tell you.” 

Tom crawled down at once, tucking the Numerology book underneath his arm so that he could use both his hands. He accepted a cup of tea from Andy, yawning to take a seat next to Robert as he dusted grit from the front of his new book. it was quite thick; he’d have to study this for days to get it figured out. 

“There now.” Robert was much happier to have him back on the ground. “On your own two feet again.” 

“Alright, tell me what you know.” Tom grinned. He blew upon his tea, never quite liking it when it was too hot to drink. Robert did not look happy to spill however, and Tom kept a close eye on him as he sat his teacup down and stroked his thin lips. 

“Thank you Andrew, that’ll be all.” Robert dismissed him. Andy bowed, turning and leaving promptly without further cue. As the door shut behind him, Robert sighed and sagged on the couch, showing a form of laxness that he’d never allow to be seen in front of staff. 

“Before, I thought I would have to dismiss Barrow.” Robert admitted. From his tone, Tom could tell the story was to be a long one and carefully sat his teacup and book down. 

“The abbey has to keep up with the modern world, and there is no place for an under butler.” Robert explained, “I thought Carson would help him… but I came to see in time that Barrow and Carson seldom get along and it was folly to think they’d be able to work together on such a delicate matter.” 

Tom nodded, completely at ease. Whatever Robert had to say, he was sure Thomas would understand and forgive him. 

Robert closed his eyes for a moment, somehow needed to steel himself; typical Robert. He took far too much to heart. “Thomas felt like he had no future-“ Tom noted the name shift, “He was being pushed out into an unforgiving world and had nothing to fall back on. The others…” Robert waved a hand through the air, “They have families, spouses, prospects. What does Thomas have, but this abbey and this family? I cannot imagine a man like him has a very forgiving home life. You know-“ Robert paused, looking at Tom, “He’s the son of a middle class clock maker. By all rights, he should have grown up to inherit his father’s property. That’s the way of our land. So ask yourself, how could he have ended up slipping into the servant class, working for us?” 

Tom tilted his head left and right, shrugging. It didn’t take much guessing to figure out what might have happened. 

Robert looked away, rubbing his lips again. He seemed oddly nervous as if he’d done wrong, “I didn’t see.” Robert whispered, lacing his fingers together. Tom had in effect become his psychiatrist, “I was too blinded with Edith and Mary vying for my attention. I didn’t see what I was doing. What I was… setting to…” Robert waved a hand through the air again but fell off. 

For the first time, Tom felt an odd clenching sensation in his throat. His heart was beginning to pick up speed. Why did Robert sound so repentant, afraid? What had he done? 

More importantly what had happened to Thomas? 

“…Last June, Thomas cut his wrists.” Robert finally said. 

For a moment Tom couldn’t think. 

He looked away, brow furrowed and mouth slightly ajar. He found himself thinking of Thomas, of how sad and somber he’d often appear. How during the summer he’d needed to speak to a psychologist. How when Sybbie had had scarlet fever and Thomas had bathed her in porridge… his wrists… 

There had been leather cuffs on his wrists. 

Tom rose up from the couch, clutching at his neck. He massaged his throat thinking intently, and paced the floor. Behind him, Robert just kept talking. 

“It happened the same day that Edith and Mary had their falling out over Bertie Pelham. Baxter found him in time and kept him out of the hospital. Clarkson informed me that had they been even ten minutes later to his side, it would have been a cold grave for Thomas and not a warm bed. I think it gave Mary a shock— you know she and Thomas are rather similar.” 

Tom had been out of the house that day, cursing Mary in town.   
He’d been completely unaware. All this time.  
All this bloody time. 

A million images were hitting him at the same time, exploding like fire crackers in his brain: Thomas broken and weeping against a tree, Thomas pensive and nervous during New Years, unsure how to tell Tom something personal about himself when everyone was ‘smiling’. Thomas determined, desperate even to speak to the dead. Thomas frowning, looking away, lost in his head… in his own world. 

Left alone to his own devices and destruction. 

Tom’s heart had fully picked up now. It was pounding in his chest, enraged with the unfairness of the situation. Robert, Mary, Carson, Baxter, Clarkson- why hadn’t anyone done anything? Why hadn’t anyone seen— why hadn’t anyone realized? Thomas had been screaming for help in a crowded room and not one person had turned their head to acknowledge him. Even Tom had been too wrapped up in his own petty squabbles with Mary to see that someone was literally on the verge of taking their own life… and that was shameful. 

What was more, it couldn’t have happened to a less deserving person. Thomas might have been a prick, might have been snooty and snappy with a razor for a tongue at times, but that did not mean he deserve to die alone in a bathtub. He’d told Mary before that bullies were cowards, and he’d meant it. Thomas Barrow had been a coward many times in his life, terrified to stare himself in the face and admit to what he was seeing. 

In the end it had proved too much. No one had ever shown him how to swim with that weight, so instead he’d decided to sink. 

Tom walked to the window, placing a hand upon its cool pane to stare out at the snowy grounds. 

“Do you know what Carson told me?” Robert mused.

“What?” Tom felt like his lips were growing numb. The rage was still growing in his chest.

“…That he thought Thomas didn’t have a heart.” 

Tom scoffed, several bitter phrases right on the tip of his tongue and none of them pleasant for Carson. Tom could just see Thomas in his mind’s eye, rocking Sybbie in his arms and kissing her blistering brow… caring nothing for himself and the risk of scarlet fever. 

“Well he was wrong.” Tom finally snapped. He turned away from the window, not even looking at Robert as he snatched up his book on numerology. He abandoned his tea, unable to take another swallow. Robert rose up, sensing his distress. 

“Where are you going?” Robert asked, nervous, “I hope I haven’t upset you.” 

“I need to walk.” Tom blurted out, an honest intention. It would just be better if he put his mouth on hold for now, “I’m angry and I want to cool off.” 

“Tom…” Robert stopped him as he reached the door, “Thomas is safe here. His position is secure, the family couldn’t possibly do without him. He need never worry about his job again-“ 

“That’s not half the problem with Thomas!” Tom snapped. “Not even half.”   
This wasn’t about a job. Not by a long shot. 

He left Robert in the small library, unsure how to console him or if he even wanted too. Damnit he needed some consoling himself, but the one person he wanted to turn to was the one person he absolutely had to avoid. 

It was the same situation everywhere he went. People with individual mindsets and high hopes were treated like shit by men from the old crowd. Socialist? Demonic. Homosexual? Throw them in the clink. Tom kicked at a bit of snow as he stomped across the lawn, making an odd muddy path where ever he went. He found himself all but walking in circles, angry at the world and everyone in it as he thought of Thomas’ pain. Of how much he’d have had to have suffered in order to think that taking his life was the best way out. 

How could one make the decision that having no life was better than having any life without dire agony to their soul? 

Unable to do anything but fume, Tom finally found a bench beneath an Oak tree that Robert and Cora often favored to brush it free of snow and sit down. 

He was angry.   
Angry for Thomas, angry for himself, angry for anyone who had ever been struck down just for being slightly different whether they were Irish, or gay, or socialist, or what have you. 

He thought of his cousin gunned down in the streets of ‘looking’ like a rebel.   
Of his cousin Nula and her daughter raised as her sister.  
Of his friends and neighbors, who’d decided the only way out was to torch an estate. 

Of himself, growing more tied and tangled with a young man just as distraught as he. 

Tom cursed loudly jerking an arm back to almost throw his Numerology book out into the snow. But then he realized the foolishness of his actions and at once put the book in his lap to instead scoop up snow from the bench and chunk massive balls out onto the field. 

“Fuckin-English-Pigs!” Tom cursed as he threw his snow. Was he talking about anyone or about Carson in particular? It was difficult to say. 

He slumped against the bench, suddenly mirroring Robert in the small library as cursing turned into lamenting. As anger turned to sorrow.

He suddenly wanted to find Thomas. To hold him. To whisper in his ear that he was loved, that he was valued.

To do more… whatever more meant.  
Tom flushed, unsure of what he was feeling or why. Could he trust his emotions just now? That his urge to show Thomas affection was genuine or…or just something else. Something akin to righteous fury for a hurt friend. He suddenly wished he had a book on his own feelings. That he could just flip to the right chapter and figure out what to say or do. Sybil had lived her life in accordance with the decorum of her class.

Tom had never been so lucky as to have rules for his feelings to follow. They blew like sea winds over ancient Irish pastures, never settling for long. 

Unable to find peace internally, Tom turned to the external. He picked up his book, flipping through its many chapters only to pause as he stumbled across a large section entitled ‘Methods’. This part of the book was divided into many particular theories, such as ‘Abjad Numerals’, ‘Hebrew Numerals’, ‘Armenian Numerals’, ‘Chinese Numerals’, ‘Greek Numerals’, and ‘Gematria’. 

Fuck. He was in for a long night. 

Tom sat out in the snow reading on the history of Numerology for as long as he could take it, but without a proper coat or gloves he was soon shivering in the slush. He then abandoned his perch on the bench to head right back inside and spent the rest of the day sequestered in his room even taking dinner there so as to avoid conversation with the family. He claimed illness- a head cold- and kept a notepad full of Sybil’s codes beside him as he flicked from one branch of Numerology to the next. 

This was good. Thinking was good. Moving was good.   
He couldn’t sit still and think about Thomas or disaster would follow. He was almost certain of it. 

 

Day turned to night, as soon it was ten at night with the house settling around him. Tom heard Bates and Anna tend to Robert and Mary- heard Baxter bid Cora goodnight. Heard the children beg the nanny for another five minutes if only to play… heard the final door close. He turned on his desk lamp, scrubbing frequently at his face and hair with his hands.

He gave up the Abjad system. It made no sense to him, written almost fully in arabic. 

He shed his vest and his shoes, followed swiftly by his suspenders and shirtsleeves till he was sitting at his desk with half his clothes on the floor around him as he chewed on the nib of his pen and considered Armenian numerals…. 286411… 

B- an upside down ‘e’- Z- D- A-A

… Well that was another method out then. Tom scratched through his attempt, grumpy, and started on the next concept. 

Chinese numerals were associated with the sounds they produced, and as such the entire system had less to do with constrict meaning than it did implied reference. 

286411 roughly therefore translated into: ‘easy’, ‘prosperity’, ‘smooth’, ‘death’, ‘sure’, ‘sure’. 

Tom groaned, flicking through to the next section of the book. Damn Chinese numerals- why couldn’t they just be… simple? Then again, maybe Tom was the ignorant one. The next chapter he flipped to was ‘Greek Numerals’ and was filled with weird shapes such as triangles, hard right angles, and O’s with lines through them. 

Tom immediately flipped to the next chapter: “Gematria” and stopped dead.   
It was all about the language of math, and offered a chart for Tom to pour over: 

**1= a, j, s**  
**2 = b, k, t**  
**3 = c, l, u**  
**4 = d, m, v**  
**5 = e, n, w**  
**6 = f, o, x**  
**7 = g, p, y**  
**8 = h, q, z**  
**9 = i, r**

‘words’ could be then summed, such as ‘Hello’ for example which would translate into 8+5+3+3+6= 25 into 2+5= 7… 7 in gematria was ‘zayin’, and could be used to represent several things including ‘a mark’.

Such as a mark on a conversation. 

“Jesus Christ…” Tom muttered, pulling out Sybil’s list of numbers again. He wrote down the graph exactly as it was pictured, placing it side by side with his number puzzles. up and down, he could make connections easier. He suddenly felt like a child again, bent over his times tables. 

Too bad for him he’d been shit at math. 

**2 = b, k, t**  
**8 = h, q, z**  
**6 = f, o, x**  
**4 = d, m, v**  
**1= a, j, s**  
**1= a, j, s**

“Alright…” Tom whispered to himself, starting to plug up words. Whatever was here, it was a name. Somehow, it plugged into the word ‘twin’. Maybe ‘Twin’ meant something in gematria… 2+5+9+5=21… 2+1=3… ‘Gimel’ in gematria. A person in motion, symbolically a rich man running after a poor man to give him charity. 

It was starting to sound like Lord Merton by the minute minute. 

The minutes passed to hours and slowly it became midnight with Tom making little to no success. He found himself slipping into dreams, his mind muddled and his eyes weary as he laid his head down upon his desk for a small nap. Nothing too major- just a bit of a breather. 

But even in dreams he was pursued.   
A soft voice whispered in his ear, coating the shell of his ear in the finest of cold mists.   
For whatever reason, the lightbulb next to Tom’s head, already slightly low in energy, began to dim completely out. Lost in dark dreams, Tom did not see it. 

_“My darling”_ the voice was sinister, bitter and jaded. _“My darling…”_

The light bulb popped in its bracket, going out completely.   
Tom gasped awake, eyes wide. He looked about, realizing he was absolutely in pitch black and despite being a grown man with thirty five years under his belt he suddenly felt oddly afraid of the gloom. 

He didn’t know why but he felt… watched.   
Scrambling to gain back some light, Tom jerked open his desk drawer and pulled out a pack of matches; he fumbled, using them to light an oil lamp which was positioned on his bedside table. Just as the light broke through the gloom, turning the room back into a livable space, Tom could have sworn he saw someone in the shadows. 

A soldier in a stiff army uniform. 

Wild in his determination to right his reeling mind, Tom snatched up the oil lamp and held it up threateningly to see who was there. 

The only thing his light showed was a bare corner… a bare room.   
Swallowing thickly, Tom lowered his oil lamp to carry it carefully over to his desk. He would fetch another light bulb later… for now he wanted to give his code another try. 

He rubbed his hands across his face, his mind drifting to odd places such as the way his eyes were playing tricks on him and how bitter he still felt over Thomas. 

He imagined Thomas right now, asleep in his bed. Imagined Thomas curled up, head resting upon too thin pillows and a moldy mattress that had probably never been turned in its life. Imagined him trying to keep warm with thin blankets that didn’t do his justice, lovely lips turning from red to blue. 

He suddenly wanted to find Thomas, to scoop him up and bring him to his own room so that he could rest upon a soft mattress with thick covers and plump pillows. He would wake and see Thomas draped in gold, the sunlight christening his lovely pale skin with its first rays. Tom would watched entranced as life blossomed on Thomas’s cheeks and breast. He’d yawn, turn a bit in bed… and open his eyes to stare at Tom. 

In the warmth of the dawn, his gray eyes would be like the fine early mists that often cloaked Ireland’s coast where Tom had grown up. 

And suddenly the poetry wrote itself. 

Tom looked back down at his graph and numbers, at his little puzzle which had lead him to write down every nonsense word imaginable from his string of connected numbers. He’d nearly turned the page damp with spreading ink. 

Yet he’d been blinded by the garish electric light, unable to look at his puzzle clearly as he tore off a clean sheet of paper to try one last time. 

‘Name’, ‘Twin’, and three sets of numbers (one of which was a warning, the other an explanation for Edward’s bitterness). 

2,8,6,4,1,1. 

“T…” Tom whispered aloud, moving to the next number. “H…”   
My god. He was on to something. 

“O…M…A…S” Tom finished up, eyes widening as he stared at the cracked puzzle. 

2,8,6,4,1,1.   
T-H-O-M-A-S. 

Name. Twin. Name.   
Thomas, name. The _name_ was _Thomas_. 

“Oh my god.” Tom repeated, almost gleeful. He clutched at his face, staining his lips and cheek with ink. “Two plus eight plus six plus four plus one plus one…” He did the math on his sheet “twenty-two… Four.” Four was the root number of the name Thomas. Four in Gematria was ‘Daleth’. It was a non-sacred way of referring to God. 

… But what did that mean? 

Tom grimaced, pulling back. What was a twin name for Thomas?   
Damnit he needed- 

Tom snapped his inky fingers, standing up at once to stumble for the door of his bedroom. What he needed was a book of name meanings and damnit he knew just where to find one. Sneaking out of his room with nothing but a box of matches in hand, Tom tiptoed downstairs through the darkened gallery staircase with his heart racing. As he reached the bottom he moved with speed across the carpet, the plush texture muffling his footsteps. The small library was locked, but Tom knew where the key was (one lay in Carson’s office, another hiding in an innocent looking volume near the door on flowers. All one had to do was open it to the page on ‘violets’ to find the key hiding pressed inside. Tom snatched it out, opened the door and slunk inside to find himself plunged into darkness. The maids closed the shutters at night- he was practically walking into a tomb. 

Undeterred, Tom searched blindly with his hands for an old fashioned oil lamp that he knew would be sitting on a side table with a pot of flowers and a picture of the Dowager. He found all three and quickly fumbled with his matchbook to strike a light so that he could fill the small library with a dull warm glow. Lamp lit, Tom at once moved the rolling ladder across the floor back to the section where he’d found a book on palmistry and name meanings. Up he went, finding the book exactly where he’d left it, and pulled it out to flip hastily to the ’T’s and found ‘Thomas’ waiting. 

_“Greek form of the Aramaic name תָּאוֹמָא (Ta'oma') which meant "twin". In the New Testament this is the name of the apostle who initially doubts the resurrected Jesus. According to tradition he was martyred in India. Due to his renown, the name came into general use in the Christian world.”_

Tom stared, re re- reading the first sentence again: _“Greek form of the Aramaic name תָּאוֹמָא (Ta'oma') which meant “twin"_.

Jesus hell. Thomas meant ‘twin’. 

Tom almost fell from the ladder, heart pounding in his chest as he hastily blew out the light to the small library and ran from the room. He forgot to lock it back, dashing back up to his room and hastily rifling through his numerology book to figure out Sybil’s two last codes. The numbers were smaller in count, making them easier to deduce, and with a lead Tom was able to figure out ‘3,6,4,5’ could only mean ‘love’. 

He flipped through his spiral notebook, noting Thomas’ neat but slanted handwriting. He’d asked the question of why Edward was mad at him… and the answer had been ‘love’… neither a name nor a verb. Although to be fair, one could say ‘to love’, but that was besides the point. 

The room was growing cold again. Tom shivered looking over his shoulder at his bare room.   
Why did he have the ugly feeling that he was being watched. 

“…Why is Edward angry at me.” Tom whispered to himself, “Love… Love… I’m is doing it- love.” 

But why would Edward be angry at him for loving someone? Edward only had eyes for-   
Tom suddenly dropped his pen, blood draining from his face. 

“Edward is angry at me because I …” Tom mumbled to his empty room. Only his breath in the form of a mist greeted him. 

_Because I love Thomas_. 

‘New Love’ sybil had declared, urging him to let go. She’d given him the number sequence, name, and twin. The numbers had turned out to be the name Thomas, whose root meaning was aramaic for _twin_. 

And suddenly could not help but think of Thomas. Of his beauty, and grace- of his fiery disposition and his jaded spirit. Of his erotic picture hiding safely beneath Tom’s pillow- clutching his sheet to his chest with a demure expression upon his lips. Of how he’d slit his wrists last June, and now Tom wanted nothing but to comfort him. 

To tell him he was loved.

“Oh my god.” Tom whispered to himself, hands flying to his cold lips, “Oh my god. Oh my god, Sybil help me.” 

But the ouija board was tucked into Thomas’ room, and if Tom wanted to speak with Sybil that meant he was going to have to sneak up into the attics and take the board right from Thomas’ room. Facing Thomas in light of this new revelation was terrifying, so Tom instead dwelled on the idea while likewise solving Sybil’s last code, the name and warning. But the poetry practically wrote itself, and Tom easily found the name waiting in the words…. particularly when it involved two ‘9’s which could only be ‘i’s or ‘r’s. The name was Larry and the warning was clear, when twelve hours for now the whole house would be gearing up for a dinner disaster and a show down with the devil. 

Tom clapped a hand over his mouth, mumbling to himself, “She was warning about Larry.” 

He really needed that ouija board.   
“Fuck.” 

Tom tip toed out of his room, heart already pounding in his chest as he found the green baize door and carefully opened it to walk up in the gloom. At night all the lights were turned off but Tom had slept here before and knew how to scale the stairs without making any noise. The real terror when he reached the top was turning right onto the men’s hall and slowly walking down the path upon rickety wooden boards to the far door that boded to him. Tom knew the hall boy Peter and Andy were both sleeping here as well. If he scared Thomas in his sleep and caused him to scream out, how the fuck would he ever explain this? 

He couldn’t. He’d spill his guts and everyone would know.   
Goody. 

Tom reached the door that read the name _“Mr. Barrow”_ and stroked the paper softly, noting that Thomas had yet to take up residence in Mr. Carson’s old room. 

Tom let out a slow, deep breath and gently took the door knob in hand. These doors could not be locked, and so he gently twisted the knob with no resistance to open the door just a hair and poke his head inside. 

The room was dark and incredibly cold. Tom could see his breath again.   
Tom slipped inside, only opening the door as much as it took to get through only to close it again soundlessly. 

There was Thomas, just where Tom thought he’d be, asleep soundlessly in bed. For whatever reason Thomas had kicked off his thin blankets and had left his windows open. The result was that snow was practically coming through the room and Thomas was shivering upon his bed, lips and teeth chattering in sleep as he tossed and turned. 

Even distressed, even freezing, Tom would not deny the fact that he was beautiful. That he seemed to have been carved from moonlight and ink- from ivory and obsidian. 

But before he could lament over how fucking beautiful Thomas was, Tom needed to rectify the situation of his freezing room. Thomas would get sick if he slept like this. 

Careful not to make any noise on the floor, Tom crossed the room and closed the windows to latch them. The temperature immediately began to rise, and Tom looked back to Thomas, lamenting how he was still shivering. He needed his blankets. 

But if he laid blankets over him… how would he explain himself if Thomas woke up.   
Desperate desire to comfort won out over fear of comforting, and Tom slunk back across the room to take up Thomas’ blankets from the floor. He shook them a little, irritated by how thin they were. The servant’s deserved better than these meager rations. Carefully, Tom draped Thomas in his thin blankets, using the foot board like an iron as he dragged the blankets up the bed and finally let them gently drop onto Thomas’ body. 

Thomas did not move, still sleeping soundlessly. After a moment, his teeth stopped chattering. 

Tom was satisfied and knew he’d pushed his luck too long. As beautiful as Thomas was, as irritating as the situation likewise could be, Tom knew he had to get the ouija and get out before Thomas woke up and panicked. He might later thank Tom for locking his window and putting his blankets back on his body, but he’d not be pleased to find that Tom had trespassed into his room and watched him when he slept. 

He was a creep at this point, it didn’t bode his character well.   
Tom carefully dropped to his knees, moving as slow as possible to fish out the ouija board from beneath the bed. He found atop it the planchette both wooden and the shot glass, along with a faded waxy photograph. 

Tom did not even stop to look, taking all the items to his chest as he rose carefully back up to his feet and began to back up to the door. Thomas had shifted in his sleep, brow furrowed- he was close to waking up and Tom knew it. 

He opened the door, slipped out, and closed the door behind him. Even as it latched, he pressed his ear to the wood. For a moment he heard nothing, then from beyond the frame Thomas sighed and the bed squeaked as he rolled. 

Christ he couldn’t have cut that any thinner if he was using one of Mrs. Patmore’s speciality knives. 

Tom moved with hasty speed back to the staircase and the gallery floor. It was dangerous to walk fast but he was terrified of Thomas opening the door and stepping out into the hallway. What if he had kicked the blankets off before going to bed and had realized someone was in his room? What if he looked at his window, at the ouija board beneath his bed and put two and two together? He was a smart lad, he wouldn’t look far in the house to imagine who might have done such a thing. Tom cursed his gentlemanly candor as he returned to his room, locking the door behind him as called himself everything from an ‘asshole’ to a ‘bastard’ for being so stupid as to cover Thomas with blankets and close his window. 

Any minute now, Tom was terrified Thomas was going to come banging on his door and demand to know what the hell he was thinking. But as the hour struck four in the morning and Thomas did not appear, Tom felt his nerves beginning to drain away. They were replaced with a burning desire to know the truth, to get to the bottom of the mystery (though he was almost certain he knew what the answer was and feared it). Tom put the ouija board upon his desk, setting down both the wooden planchette and his shot glass to see that the picture atop the board had been of a junior lieutenant. He had a curved jaw, soft curly hair that lay slightly tossed upon his forehead. He was incredibly handsome, Tom would deny it, and had full lips along with a straight nose. 

Tom flipped the picture around, unsurprised when he saw the name _‘Lieutenant Edward Courtenay, Oxford, 1914’_. 

Tom flipped the picture back around, glaring at the young man captured in the waxy image. So this was Thomas’ testy little ghost boyfriend. Alright, he was handsome, there was no point in denying it— but he was also a little prig that needed to back off. 

He was dead. Tom was alive. That was the automatic trump card. Tom had a pulse and frankly more charisma than Mr. Grumpy Ghost— Edward was being a twit holding onto Thomas and causing grief in the house when he stood no chance of making Thomas happy. 

Tom sneered, putting Edward’s picture to the side.   
He was clearly only having these thoughts because it was four in the morning and he hadn’t slept all night. No, there was certainly no way Tom would be getting slightly jealous of a ghost if he had a full night’s sleep behind him. 

He fetched whiskey from beneath his own bed, a stash he kept hidden in the event of emergencies (such as dinners with Larry Gray and finding out you were actually fancying a man). He poured himself a full shot and toasted the setting moon outside his window to say, “To Sybil… and Thomas.” He threw the shot back, liquor burning all the way down before he slammed his shot glass upon his desk. He turned it upside down, whiskey staining the board as he pushed his little planchette around the wood and spoke aloud to the freezing night air. 

“Sybil, m’darlin.” Tom murmured, “Talk to me.” 

It would take him nearly an hour to make the connection, but he closed his eyes and pondered like it was a type of meditation. He waited, patient, and when the planchette finally began to twitch the moon had nearly set with the sky turning the faintest shade of blue out of the inky black. The sun would soon rise. 

The planchette drug across the board, and Tom slowly opened his eyes to see that it had landed on the word ‘hello’. 

How easy was it to keep his back to the room and imagine Sybil was right behind him, talking in his ear instead of talking to him through a planchette and a whiskey soaked board? To imagine she was alive and he was whole? 

_“Hello Tom.”_ she’d murmur in his ear, wrapping her arms about his chest to bury her nose in his hair. She would smell him, taking a deep breath to draw strength from the scent of his skin. 

“Am I right?” Tom asked aloud. “Are you sayin’… I love Thomas? That Thomas is my new love?” 

_“Yes.”_ She murmured in his ear, her breath tickling the nape of his neck. 

“Sybil.” Tom whispered, “What do I do?” 

_“Watch out.”_ she urged, the same advice from before. 

“Larry…” Tom said the name aloud with clear disgust in his voice. 

_“Yes.”_

“Larry’s going to do something to Thomas isn’t he.” 

_“Yes.”_

“And Thomas nearly killed himself and it’s going to make him spiral.” 

_“Yes.”_

“… And that’s why Edward doesn’t like me, does he. Because he knows I’m…” Tom swallowed around an enormous ugly knot in his throat. The sky had turned another lighter shade, a lovely royal blue now. “In love…” He finally managed to say, “With Thomas.” 

_“Yes.”_ Sybil admitted, her tone shifting. She went back to smelling his hair. 

“…Sybil, do you hate me?” Tom wondered, “When my child killed you and I-“ 

But Sybil cut him off, her ghostly arm pointing out to the window where the sun was now beginning to rise. The sky turned light blue, the sun peeking over the trees to stain the sky a bright orange with its touch. 

_“Sun.”_ she murmured in his hear, the planchette dragging to the drawing of the sun in the far corner. 

“… I love you.” Tom whispered, whether to the sun or to Sybil- to all the world in between so that she might hear him where ever she was. “I love you, Sybil.” 

_“Let go.”_ she whispered into his ear. 

“…Let go.” Tom repeated, looking out at the sun which was clearly in the sky. The night was over, the suffering down. Now was the time for revelations. For new beginnings. 

For new loves. 

“Let go and love Thomas.” Tom murmured, “As I loved you.” 

_“Yes.”_ she said in his ear. 

“… Thank you for helping me, Sybil.” Tom turned, as if hoping to see her just there beyond his shoulder, waiting for him. But no one was there, and the whispers faded from his ear even as the planchette slid to ‘goodbye’. 

“Goodbye” He said aloud, and slumped at long last in his chair. 

 

The sun was a beautiful thing, staining a cold white world with warmth and color. After a sleepless night, Tom watched it with surprising concentration, noting how it made icicles outside his window begin to drip. Winter in England would last till March, but every morning the sun would fight a battle with the cold. Would push and prompt, would keep the icy fingers of bleak night at bay— would allow for growth even as darkness threatened to blot out everything underneath a blanket of ice. 

He remembered being young, being on the coast and watching the tide bring things in from out at see. His sisters would collect shells. His mother would watch, allowing her long hair to come unfurled from her bun so that it could blow in the wind. Tom would chase crabs and gulls, wondering at what the sea would bring in next. 

Life was sort of like that. First it had brought him a beautiful clamshell dripping in pink and white. Now it had brought him a conch as black as the night sky. Who knew what would he would hear if he pressed his ear to it and listened. Would he hear the rush of Ireland’s tide? Would he hear the whisper of a wild crowd, angry for change at a London rally? Would he hear the sound of Mrs. Patmore baking in the kitchen, or the hiss of kettle as Thomas poured him a cup of tea? Would he hear a bed creaking beyond a wooden door; a soft sigh in the dark as cold was battled by thin blankets— 

Tom jumped as the door to his bedroom opened, half expecting it to be Thomas furious for Tom’s earlier intrusion. Instead it was only Gertie, who looked scandalized to find him inside with half of his clothes missing. From the ouija bed to the open whiskey bottle, this was a situation hard to explain. 

“…Don’t mind me.” Tom finally mumbled. Gertie blinked owlishly from the door, clutching a scullery bucket full of ashes to her dirtied chest. It seemed she’d come in to light his fire. “Long night.” 

Gertie said absolutely nothing, bobbing her head to step meekly inside and shut the door. She hurried over to his empty fireplace and at once began to clean it of ashes so that she could light a new fire. 

Tom reached over, blowing out his oil lamp. It the cool blue light of morning he put his head on his desk.

He suddenly felt ancient, as if he could sleep for ten thousand years and that would not be enough. He’d just put his head on the desk. Just… close his eyes. Just take a breath. 

He was asleep before Gertie left the room. 

~*~

Thomas had had a very odd dream last night. 

He’d dreamed he was laying in bed, unable to sleep, tossing and turning. In had come Edward, furious about something or the other. He’d yanked the covers from Thomas’ bed, cursing about Thomas’ shifting moods, and had even opened the window so that snow had started to pour into Thomas’ room. 

_“Is this what you like?!”_ Edward demanded angrily, _“To be left out in the cold?!”_

“Edward…” Thomas had pleaded, “I’m cold-“ 

But Edward had done, save sulk in a corner, bitter at his own fate and Thomas’ part in it. He’d lain there shivering for what felt like an eternity, almost losing feeling in his toes, but just when he’d given up on all hope the door to his bedroom had opened to reveal Tom. 

And Thomas knew he was saved. 

Tom had gone to his window first, closing and latching it so that the cold and the snow could no longer get in. He’d then returned to Thomas’ side, taking up Thomas’ blankets from the floor and pulling them up so that he could drape Thomas in them again. 

_“There.”_ he’d whispered to Thomas. _“That alright?”_

Thomas had smiled, unable to say anything. Tom had left his room after that, leaving Edward still sulking in the corner. He’d pressed his face into the wall as if burned by the image of Tom caring for Thomas. 

Thomas had woken, finding his room freezing but his blankets still securely over his chest… He was glad his dream had taken a turn for the better. 

The morning of Larry Gray’s disastrous but delicious dinner party, Thomas sat in Mr. Carson’s office with Carson himself, decanting wine for the night and preparing one final checklist of items to go up and drinks to be served. Mr. Carson’s hands were shaking badly, resulting in him having to sit his clipboard upon his side desk in order to scroll through the pages. Thomas gently twisted the knobs of his standing wine decanter, a calm silence filling the room. The merlot slowly filtered through, till there was only a thin trickle coming out of the bottle. Just as Thomas made to unscrew the wine bottle and start on the next label, however, the phone rang. He picked it up at once, repeating the age old line. 

“Downton Abbey, this is the butler Mr. Barrow speaking.” 

_“Yes,”_ A snooty voice replied, grainy through the phone, _“This is Mr. Billford, butler of Merton Manor. My lord has a request for tonights dinner placements.”_

_Oh here we go_. Thomas thought irritably. He pulled out a clean sheaf of paper at once, uncapping his pen with his teeth to spit out the top and write. 

“Very good, sir.” Thomas said, waiting. 

_“He requests not to be sat next to the oily driver.”_ Mr. Billford sneered, _“Good day, sir.”_ And with that, he hung up the phone. 

Thomas blinked, page still clean of ink. He dropped his pen with a clatter, catching Mr. Carson’s attention. 

“… That was Larry’s butler, Billford.” Thomas said, looking at the phone in his hand. “He doesn’t want to be sat next to the oily driver.” He hung up the phone rather forcibly, sighing as he recapped his pen and slid it into his vest pocket. 

“Put him next to the Dowager and say no more of it.” Carson grumbled, returning to his list. 

Thomas crossed his arms over his chest, unable to suddenly focus on the wine that needed to be decanted as he thought of Mr. Talbot. How charming he was, and smart. He made a noise with the inside of his lips and his teeth, rocking a bit in his swivel chair. 

Typical Larry Gray, to not even give a tenth of a damn about the character of a man. The presumptuous little prig. Thomas wished he could smack him in the nose. 

“Do not let it anger you, Thomas.” Carson warned, sitting up from his clipboard to fix Thomas with an iron stare. “Shake it off, and continue with your work.” 

The wine needed decanting, the silver needed placing, the family needing serving- this was not the time for foolishness. 

“Right…” Thomas muttered, sitting back up straight in his chair to unscrew the finished bottle of merlot. He capped the crystal wine decanter, running a soft white cloth around its lightly damp rim, “Right.” 

 

They day carried on with an unusual tension. Normally Thomas could find Tom running about the main floor, or at least serve him tea in the library. Today, however, Tom did not venture down from his room until well after four in the afternoon when Thomas was preparing to set the table for dinner. He was just in the middle of laying out name cards when Tom came through the door, looking exhausted and disheveled as if he hadn’t slept all night. He stopped dead when he saw Thomas at the table, and at first Thomas thought that he was angry with him for whatever reason until Tom smiled and bowed his head as if in penance. He carried a book with him; a dusky tomb that looked like it hadn’t been opened in a century. He closed the door to the main hall, walking over to Thomas and coming to stand by his side while Thomas gently laid out crisp folded name cards. 

“Sorry to interrupt.” Tom mumbled. But he’d never be an annoyance to Thomas. Not in a thousand years. 

“Hardly.” Thomas assured him in a gentle voice. He caught Tom’s eyes, noticing they were bloodshot, “You look haggard.” 

“Didn’t sleep last night.” Tom admitted, his voice gravely. He showed Thomas the book he held, and Thomas saw the title _“Numerology”_ in faded gold ink. So it seemed Tom had been trying to crack Sybil’s codes all night- no wonder he hadn’t slept. 

“Did you figure it out?” Thomas asked. Tom nodded, pursing his lips. He clearly had much on his mind. 

“I’ll tell you tonight after dinner.” Tom murmured. This was good thinking; now wasn’t the time for codes. Now was the time for defense against Larry Gray. 

“So… was it name?” Thomas asked hopefully. He couldn’t help himself, he was curious. 

“Yes, it was a name.” Tom said, but at this he seemed inspired as he looked over Thomas’ shoulder at the clipboard he held, “Where’s Larry sitting?” 

“Well, I can’t put him near Lord Merton or Isobel, I can’t put him next to Henry Talbot by his own demands— he called him an ‘oily driver’.” Thomas sneered. Tom let out a noise of irritation, rolling his eyes. 

“I refuse point blank to put him anywhere near Sybbie.” 

“Quite.” Tom agreed. 

“Nor Lady Mary.” Thomas finished off. Tom suddenly got a dark look on his face as he took Thomas’ arm and shoulder in hand to get a better view of his clipboard. 

“Oh sit him next to me why don’t you!” Tom growled, letting go of Thomas’ arm and shifting away. This was hardly the case. Thomas had decided to put him between the Dowager and Amelia Gray. This seemed like the smartest choice to him, because Amelia was Larry’s ally and the Dowager was as unshakable as an iron shield. It just so happened however that on the other side of the Dowager sat Tom. 

I mean really- there were only so many places at the table. 

“The Dowager will buffer him all night long!” Thomas urged, sitting his clipboard down to better face Tom and assuage his fears. No wonder Tom was tense- god only knows Larry had been an absolute shit to him, drugging him. No such things would happen tonight though. Thomas would be the one watching the drinks. “They’re more than evenly matched. Just eat your food and focus on Sybbie-“ 

“Thomas.” Tom turned again. They faced one another, and Thomas suddenly remarked how tall Tom was. How handsome. Maybe it was just the glow of the afternoon light on his face, but in that moment Tom had never appeared more charming to him. “the name, the warning… it was Larry. That’s what the warning was. Sybil was warning us about Larry.” 

“Makes sense.” Thomas said at once, “Her daughter is sitting at the table with a bastard. Hardly good company for a lady.” 

“She’s not the only one in the room I care for.” Tom warned. Thomas smiled, charmed. 

“I’m sure the others appreciate your affection.” Thomas said, for some reason Tom looked pained by this, “But Larry’s focus is on Lord Merton and Isobel.” 

“Larry’s focus will be on what he perceives to be weak targets.” Tom cut across, stepping up to take Thomas’ arm in hand again. His grip was strong, commanding, but not abusive or cruel. “Last time it was me. I was new, I was stupid. This time…” Tom cut off, “This time I’m afraid of who else it’ll be.” 

“Sybbie.” Thomas supplied, for surely the six year old was the obvious target. 

“Maybe.” Tom squeezed his arm. He sounded so horribly unsure, Thomas just wanted to assuage him. To care for him. To help him. 

Too consumed by their current conversation, Tom dropped his book. 

Both Tom and Thomas bent down at the same time, and ended up knocking heads so that they head to pull away from the yipping pain. 

They caught each other’s eye and started laughing, sniggering at their antics. Tom bent down alone and picked up the book. As he rose up again, he rubbed his back, weary. He needed to sleep, that much was obvious. 

“… Why don’t you get some sleep before dinner?” Thomas urged, picking his clipboard back up to resume his rounds. “Just… lay down and rest your eyes if nothing else. You’ll need it to face Larry.” 

“You’re right.” Tom murmured; he yawned, ironically enough. “After dinner tonight, come to my room. I want to talk to you about something.” 

“..Alright.” Thomas said, wondering what it might be. No doubt Sybil’s codes… but maybe something more. Tom sure looked like he had a lot on his mind. Thomas watched him go, wondering all that went on inside his intelligent mind. Tom was like a machine. He just couldn’t stop moving. It was nice to know that Tom was so unshakable… particularly when Thomas had leather cuffs to hide his wrists. 

 

As the time grew perilously close to dinner, Thomas returned downstairs to shed his mourning armband in Mrs. Hughes’ office. The was an incredibly tense feeling in the atmosphere as he opened her office door to find her working at her desk. She smiled at him, tired but honest; he closed the door to the hallway if only to blot out the noise. 

He’d gotten his armband from a drawer in her office- a side cabinet hardly used that contained things like extra house pins and white armbands for rare royal occasions. He tugged it off of his arm, showing Mrs. Hughes as he folded and refolded it in his jittering hands. 

“I was originally only going to wear it for five days.” He admitted, somehow unwilling to put it back up in the drawer. “For five birthdays with a muffin… I’m a fickle creature.” He gave a hollow laugh, “I suppose I ought t’be ashamed of myself.” 

In that moment he thought of William who’d mourned his mother so honestly. Who’d cried every day after her death and worn his armband for three months. Jesus christ. 

“It’s hardly shameful.” Mrs. Hughes stood up, coming around her desk. She took his armband from him and folding it carefully in her own hands to put it up in her cabinet drawer. Errand done, she turned and straightened the front of his pressed livery, careful to smooth the flaps of his chest. Her hands were heavy upon his lungs, warm and soothing. “You look very handsome tonight.” 

“If you say so.” Thomas mumbled. Given that Mrs. Hughes’ definition of handsome probably had something to do with Mr. Carson… he didn’t know if he should take it as a compliment. 

“I do say so.” She chortled, like this was all some kind of game. Thomas didn’t know if he felt amused. “Tonight’s your first true test as butler.” She declared, “Mr. Carson is very excited to see how you do.” 

“…Well…” Thomas thought bleakly of Larry Gray- the storm front that he was, “I could have picked an easier test.” 

“Oh Thomas.” She chortled softly, kissing him upon the cheek. It shocked him and he jumped a bit, unsure of what she meant by it. She soothed him rubbing his arm compassionately. “Don’t concede defeat so easily.” She murmured. 

The sting of her warm lips was still upon his icy cheek. 

“Larry Gray is just jealous of men like you.” She declared, patting him up the arm. 

“Gunsels?” Thomas drawled. She smacked him hard on the arm, suddenly glaring at him like he was her immature child. 

“Language!” She warned him, “I meant men with honor.” 

Oh yes, that was him. Incredibly honorable. He should have statues erected in his honor! All up and down Leicester Square they would sing his praises. _“Thomas Barrow the Gunsel! Savior of England!”_

He snorted in disdain. 

“Mrs. Hughes, don’t lie to yourself.” Thomas sneered, looking away. He took a step back from her until her hands were not touching him at all. “I have no honor.” 

“You have plenty!” She urged, “And besides. Even if he was… like you…” Mrs. Hughes gestured up and down, “He’d never be able to catch a fish of your caliber.” 

Catch a what of his what? 

“I beg your pardon?” He had no idea what she meant. Mrs. Hughes chortled again, touching her lips with her hand. 

“Well… if he was… like you.” Mrs. Hughes gestured to him again, “Would you pursue him?” 

Pursue him?   
Thomas raised an eyebrow, still quite lost, until it suddenly hit him like a truck full of bricks and he gagged horrified at the notion. This only tickled Mrs. Hughes more. He imagined his facial expressions were atrocious. 

“Gye-!” He cursed, seething, “Absolutely not! Not in ten thousand years!” The thought was absolutely repulsive to him. Gunsel he might be, barrel scraper he was not. He would be a whore with standards- by god! 

“Because you’re better than that!” Mrs. Hughes finished off with a wide smile. “He knows that. He knows you’re better men- you and Mr. Branson, Lord Grantham.. That’s why he’s so angry and bitter. He’s jealous.” 

Thomas scoffed. He didn’t who was more delusional…. the marbles in his head or Mrs. Hughes. 

 

Despite Mrs. Hughes' good nature and hopeful outlook on the dinner, Thomas felt like he was gearing up for war as he walked into the kitchen to see it overflowing with activity. Gertie, Daisy, and Mrs. Patmore put forth dish after dish which would later be taken up. For the moment it was only pre dinner cocktails served in chilled glasses. The whole array had been set up earlier by Thomas and was now born in Andy’s hands while Moseley bore a tray of whiskey and high ball glasses. Thomas would be lying if he said he hadn’t thought of Tom when he’d ordered it put out. Peter the hall boy hung back in the corner of the room, watching nervously as Carson prowled and paced intent on every single item of the evening to go smoothly without falter. 

As Thomas entered, he regarded each member of his little play. The elder statesman, the footmen, the hall boy, the kitchen maid, the cook’s assistant, the cook. They were the in the sand against disaster. Against Larry Gray… may they prove worthy of the challenge. 

“Before we go up tonight, I have something I wish to say to you all,” Thomas spoke, causing an unnatural hush to fall through the room as Mr. Carson cleared his voice rapidly. He still was not used to this; to having command of a room and it not involving ill will. Thomas pursed his lips, clasping his hands behind his back as he looked to his footmen. Moseley was still not entirely warm to him, but he at least had the respect to listen quietly when Thomas spoke. Thomas suspected it was only out of habit alone- that Moseley knew no other way but to respect the title of ‘butler’. 

“Tonight, we will be having five dinner guests. Two of them are malicious.” 

The silence turned tense. Mr. Carson narrowed his eyes, suspicious of his tone. 

“The last time we paid court to Larry Gray, he decided it would be amusing to slip an intoxicant into Mr. Branson’s drink.” Thomas said, looking from one man to the next to sense where his weak link would be… but Andy was trustworthy and Moseley was experienced. Tonight they would be secure. “We are serving thirteen courses tonight. I want all eyes on Larry Gray’s hands. If they stray near other drinks, keep note. If they delve too deep into pockets, watch that too. Do not let him make a mockery of this house or his Lordship twice. If any of our guests start acting out of character, inform me at once. Am I clear?” 

“Yes Mr. Barrow.” They all replied. Carson nodded his head, slightly smug now. Thomas seemed to have won him over with that whole ‘mockery of this house’ bit. 

“Very good.” Thomas cracked his neck out of habit, gesturing for Andy and Moseley to follow him up out of the room, “Let’s… get this over with.” 

 

The air of tension upstairs was no better, and when Thomas entered the drawing room with Andy and Moseley he found Tom already by the far window looking out onto the western gardens. It was the same view Tom could no doubt see from his room, but he seemed captivated by the trees and grass all the same. Snow was still on the ground- it was only January after all. He watched the sun, right on the rim of the horizon and about to plunge- the moon was already over head, chasing its companion out of sight. 

The family came down one party at a time. First there was Lord and Lady Grantham dressed in their finest and looking rather tense. Then came Lady Mary and Mr. Talbot who were much more at ease though they still looked rather irritable about the whole affair. With them came little Sybbie, who was wearing a dress of lightest pink tonight with pearls at the neck and wrists. She seemed delighted with herself, bounding first over to her father to kiss him upon the cheek, and then to Lord Grantham to do the same to him. Tonight would be her first ‘big party’ and she seemed to be eager to make the most of it. She sat perfectly still upon the couch, not even fiddling with her white elbow length gloves as the Dowager entered the room and kissed Lady Grantham upon the cheek. She was shortly followed in by Lord and Lady Merton who’d been shown in by Mr. Carson, and with the entire party ready (save for their two final guests) Mr. Carson left Thomas in full charge of the sitting room as he returned patiently to stand at the door. 

The minutes that then followed were as ugly and tense as all the others; each person seemed to be sweating now, regretting what would surely have to follow this disastrous meal. To keep himself from growing tense, Thomas indulged Sybbie in a small and watered down cocktail that she’d been desperate to try. The minute that her lips touched the glass, however, she balked and immediately handed it over to Lord Grantham who downed it like a spoonful of trusty medicine. 

“It tastes awful.” Sybbie protested to the others, who could only chuckle at her naivety, “Can’t I have tea?” 

Thomas had been expecting this, and had come prepared. Even as he signaled for it, Moseley poured Sybbie a cup of cooled milk tea. Cocktails, it seemed, were just as bad in her book as red wine. 

“Don’t worry, darling.” Lord Grantham assured her, setting his empty glass down on the side table. Thomas scooped it up at once to ferry it back over to Andy for polishing and refilling, “Anything that you don’t drink, I will.” 

“Robert,” Lady Grantham tisked. 

“I’m afraid we’re all going to need one after tonight.” Lady Merton agreed, bitter in her dress of pale blue. The Dowager, however, cloaked in black and mauve with small feathers in her iron gray hair, would not so easily give in. 

“Let’s not concede defeat so quickly.” She urged from her far chair at the edge of the room, “We still don’t know who he’s sitting by.” 

Eager to get a jab in after her taunt about him ‘marrying a lady’ the other night, Thomas bobbed his head to say, “You, your ladyship.” with as polite a tone as he could muster. The Dowager did not miss a beat, sipping gently upon her cocktail in a most dignified manor. 

“There, you see?” She even managed a small smile, “Barrow has a solution for everything.” 

But as talk resumed in the room, the Dowager motioned for him to draw closer and Thomas knew he was about to get an ass kicking. He did as she bade, stooping low as he drew close to her side so that their faces were on the same level. She leaned in, still smiling for the effect of the others even as she muttered, “I shall try to keep my displeasure with you small” out of the corner of her wrinkled mouth. Thomas took her half-finished cocktail from her, pouring her a full glass. 

“Forgive me if I did not put him next to the six year old, M’lady.” He muttered back. 

“Yes, well, why not Robert?” She demanded softly. 

“His lordship has already had one gastrectomy, M’lady.” Thomas reminded her. The Dowager rolled her beady eyes. 

“And I suppose you wouldn’t think to put him next to Mary?” 

“Larry Gray telephoned earlier today and specifically asked not to be seated near the ‘oily driver’, M’lady.” The Dowager scoffed at this, clearly already wanting out of the dinner party. How could he blame her? It would be difficult to eat next to Larry Gray, even if you were feasting on sumptuous steamed crab. 

He caught her eye, noting the anger in their ancient pools. 

“If you don’t want to sit next to the prig, I’ll move the card-“ Thomas began. She cut him off with a sharp wave of the hand. 

“I don’t want him in the house.” She corrected him. 

“M’lady.” Thomas passed her back her full cocktail. She did not take it from him just yet, narrowing her eyes at him as he said, “Conceding defeat so quickly?” 

“Give me that.” She snapped, taking the cocktail from him to sip at it bitterly. “And never speak so impertinently to me again.” 

But if impertinence was forbidden, the Dowager would never get to speak at all. Thomas turned and left her side, walking over to the far corner of the room to fetch a glass of whiskey and ice from Moseley if only to ferry it over to Tom who was still looking out the window at the darkened sky. One could almost see the stars now. 

Tom turned, smiling tenderly at Thomas- it was a bizarre expression and one Thomas was not fully used to receiving in the house. He offered Tom the glass of whiskey all the same, but Tom shook his head, continuing to stare out the window. 

“Have a drink.” Thomas urged softly. 

“No.” Tom murmured. 

“Tom, you’re scaring me.” He whispered. 

Tom gave him another gentle smile, “I’m sorry.” Tom murmured, and he meant it, “Don’t worry about me, Thomas. I’ve got myself settled.” 

But even as the atmosphere grew relaxed, the door to the parlor opened to reveal Carson who looked irritable even as he stepped aside to reveal Larry and Amelia Gray. Their party was complete. 

“The honorable Lord and Lady Gray.” Carson announced them. The pair of them stepped in at once, looking stuffy and haughty as they were at once offered a cocktail by Andy. Amelia accepted; Larry did not. 

Thomas watched Larry’s hands constantly, and noted Andy did the same. Moseley was busy making another high ball for his lordship. 

“Ah!” Lord Grantham declared, rising out of his chair to greet his guest, “You’ve come.” 

“Did we have a choice?” Larry drawled, his tone scathing even to his host. 

“And so the battle begins.” Tom said bitterly, though only Thomas could hear it standing by his side. 

In that moment, Thomas acted quite unprofessionally, turning away from his new guests to instead focus solely on Tom who was happy to keep his back to the room and look out onto the lawn instead. Thomas compared Larry and Tom in his head, noting just how handsome Tom was. How warm and open. Larry could never hope to compare to such a man. 

“Just remember you’ve the winning hand.” Thomas declared. Tom raised an eyebrow, urging for humor in such a dark moment. 

“How’s that, dove.” Tom joked. 

“You’re the better man.” Thomas replied. Tom grinned, and as he looked at Thomas he winked at him. It was a private, gentle action; only they were allowed to share it. 

“Goodness!” Amelia’s tight voice sounded in the room; Thomas and Tom both turned to observe her target of choice: Sybbie. 

Though to be fair, Lady Mary was backing Sybbie up. Amelia was incredibly outmatched even if she didn’t know it. 

“Who are you?” Amelia asked, politely curious even if she was snooty. 

“How do you do.” Sybbie spread her dress wide to curtsey, “I’m Miss Sybbie Branson. “

“What a pretty gown you’re wearing, Miss Branson.” Amelia complimented. Sybbie beamed, but Thomas had to wonder if she even meant a word she said. 

Larry came to stand by his wife’s side, hardly even acknowledging his father who had risen to try and make conversation. 

“You’re the spitting image of your mother.” Larry declared, “Thank god for that.” 

Tom made a noise deep in his throat, one of anger and irritation. As a unit, Tom and Thomas strode forward to face Larry Gray head on. He supposed they must make quite a daunting wall, for Larry’s eyes narrowed and he took a step back as they approached. Tom put both of his hands on Sybbie’s shoulders, protecting her from her unknown enemy even as Amelia tittered and tried to pass it all off as easy conversation. Thomas clasped his hands behind his back, eyes on Larry Gray’s hands and pockets and he turned to his father and finally engaged in painful conversation. It was clear neither of them knew how to talk to the other. 

After only a few minutes of small talk with his poor father, Larry Gray strode away. He came to rest, for whatever reason, by the Dowager who despite having only minutes earlier cursed Larry’s existence pretended to be quite pleased to see him. He even allowed her to kiss her hand and sit beside her as she swept a hand for Amelia to take her other side. The couple looked eager to be away from the eyes of the crowd- clearly the Crawley’s were a daunting brood to take on at the same time. 

“Oh! Larry… how good to see you.” The Dowager acted as if they were old friends long parted. “Amelia.” She said with just as much enthusiasm, “How are you enjoying your new house in London?” 

“Very well.” Amelia declared, taking a hearty sip of her cocktail, “We were able to take many of our servants so we live comfortably.” 

“Oh, I wish I could say the same.” The Dowager was the queen of small talk, “I’m down to the bare bones with Spratt and Denker.” 

“I thought the abbey was the same.” Larry wondered, casting a wary eye to the four male servants in the room. Little did his pompous arse know that the subject of shortening staff had been Thomas’ personal nightmare for the past year. Thomas kept his eyes resolutely forward, despite his heinous eavesdropping habits. Was it his imagination or had Lady Grantham already had four cocktails? Her cheeks were tinged the lightest pink. Thomas narrowed his eyes watching her habits— if Larry Gray had drugged the lady of this house Thomas was going to drag him outside and beat him senseless on the gravel step. 

No. No she wasn’t drugged. She was just stressed. She wanted to drink. 

“No well- Carson has stepped down officially as butler to let Barrow take over.” The Dowager explained. Larry gave a sneer of distaste. 

“They let Barrow become butler here?” He wondered aloud. 

_Yes they did_ , Thomas thought irritably, _And if you give me any grief on it I’ll snap your willy like a pencil_. 

“Well, he is very loyal to the family.” The Dowager said. 

“Why was he wearing leather cuffs?” 

Thomas cursed himself, automatically looking down at his hands to see that the very edges of his leather cuffs were poking out beneath his livery; the curse of having to serve a massive amount of cocktails. He quickly tugged at his sleeves, turning momentarily to set his livery to rights. 

“My dear.” The Dowager gave Larry the oddest look, something very close to disdain, “Not everyone has had their life laid out from their birth.” 

But all Larry did was sneer and demand another cocktail. 

 

In an attempt to gain some distant (and some peace of mind) Thomas took a tray of drinks over to the far corner of the room where the ‘good fight’ had gathered. Lady Merton, Lord Merton, Lady Grantham, Lady Mary, and Mr. Talbot were all clustered around Tom who was still keeping his hands resolutely upon Sybbie’s shoulders as she continued to sip her milk tea. Thomas stooped down to offer Sybbie another milk tea before taking her old cup. 

“So are we to let Cousin Violet hold him off all night long?” Lady Merton looked irritably over to the far couch where the Dowager was still doing battle with Larry and Amelia. 

“At least until dinner.” Lord Merton consoled her, “I’ll talk to him properly then.” 

“He’s frightfully insecure isn’t he?” Mr. Talbot wondered. Tom made an ugly noise beneath his breath. 

“And horribly pompous.” Lady Mary warned. “He had an eye for Sybil but she considered him a thorn in her side. Barrow-“ She spoke up, and he bobbed his head expecting another drink order, “You mustn’t listen to anything he says tonight. It’s all rubbish.” 

“Quite right.” Lady Grantham added, accepting her fifth cocktail from him. He said nothing, though he wished he could ask her to stop. “You and Carson are holding court wonderfully.” 

“Thank you, M’lady.” Thomas murmured softly. He looked across the room to see Carson offering the Dowager another cocktail; yes let Carson and the Dowager fight off the snakes. They’d fit nicely. 

“I confess, M’lady, my concerns aren’t for the staff tonight.” Thomas admitted, “They’re for Miss Sybbie.” 

From Tom’s knees, Sybbie licked her lips free of milk tea and beamed at him. He smiled back. How he wished he could stroke her hand and hold her as before. 

“Tom won’t let Larry near her.” Lady Mary assured him. Thomas looked up, catching Tom’s eyes. They were full of fire- just waiting for an excuse to do battle. It might not have been Tom’s intention, but they were downright smoldering. It just made him more handsome than usual. 

“Nor will I.” Mr. Talbot added, toasting Tom and Thomas silently with his glass. 

 

Eventually, dinner was ready to be served. Carson shepherded the family into the dining hall while Thomas, Andy, and Moseley started up the train of entree dishes. They started the meal with a thin oriental soup, accompanied by sherry which Lord Grantham looked onto longingly but did not partake. The next meal came with salmon, the the next course of mutton cutlets. Next came the biggest course: the french crab laced in succulent smells. Sybbie had never eaten crab before and was quite overwhelmed by the whole concept as she nibbled on her first bite. She caught Thomas’ eye, and Thomas silently skirted around the table to bend at the waist and listen to what she had to say. 

“Why is daddy so angry?” Sybbie whispered into his ear. From this angle, across the table, Thomas was easily able to see Tom, the Dowager, and Larry Gray all of whom were hardly touching their food. The Dowager looked ready to throw in the towel after having to deal with the mayhem all night long. Really they ought to send her an apology card, tomorrow. 

“Sometimes we must dine with those we dislike.” Thomas murmured in her ear, “Pay no mind to it.” 

“Does Daddy dislike Mr. Gray?” Sybbie asked, her voice so soft it was practically a breath. She seemed slightly afraid. Once again, Thomas wished he could take her in his arms and comfort her and he used to be able to do. 

“Don’t worry about that, darling.” Thomas consoled her, “He’s not worth your time. Remember, a lady knows how to dismiss a man without saying a single word.” 

To this, Lady Mary (sitting on Sybbie’s right) leaned in so that Thomas had to pull back slightly in order to whisper to Sybbie, “I always turn up my nose at a man when I dislike him.” 

Sybbie tried to the same, but just ended up looking straight up at the ceiling and the underside of Thomas’ chin. Thomas smiled unable to stop himself. 

“What are the differences between these forks and spoons?” Sybbie asked him, for Thomas realized she’d really been eating most of her dinner with cake fork. 

I mean really, she was only six. It was an excusable offense. 

“This is a salad fork, and a dinner fork.” Lady Mary explained, pointing to each fork in particular with the tip of her gloved hand as she dabbed at the corner of her petite mouth with her silk napkin, “This is a soup spoon and a teaspoon.” 

“What is this fork?” Sybbie asked, showing the one she’d been eating with. Lady Mary just smiled. 

“A cake fork.” She said. “And that spoon-“ She pointed to one at the far edge of Sybbie’s plate, “Is a desert spoon. And your bread knife, and your dinner knife.” 

“Oh.” Sybbie looked at her cake fork which had most decidedly not been used to eat cake. She seemed unsure what to do with it and put it down in her lap atop her napkin. Lady Mary was happy to help, taking up Sybbie’s cake fork and putting it back at the top of her plate to pick up her dinner fork on the left. She offered it to Sybbie who took it at once to resume eating her crab and rice. 

“Don’t you worry, Sybbie.” Lady Mary murmured in her ear, “I’ll show you the way.” 

Sybbie looked much more content at that. 

Thomas looked up across the table, spotting Tom; he was staring at Thomas intensely, so much so that it slightly shocked him until he realized that Larry Gray was once again up in arms over the staff and was probably throwing shit at his image. 

Tom was trying to warn him. Trying to gauge his reactions. 

“I’m not saying that I disapprove of servants.” Larry was in the middle of a discussion with Lord Grantham; it was growing slightly heated, “I couldn’t live without them, obviously. And they serve their use, but you could pick better.” 

“I don’t understand what you’re suggesting.” Lord Grantham couldn’t have looked more affronted if someone had insulted the dog. “My staff is hand picked by Carson-“ 

“But he’s not the butler anymore.” Larry clarified. Tom was practically glaring at Thomas now in his bottled rage. 

_Steady Tom_ , Thomas tried to convey by his eyes. _Steady_. 

_I’m going to kill him_ , Was Tom’s response back. 

_Yes but first at least try your crab, it’s delicious_. Thomas gently glanced at Tom’s plate, then back up at Tom. Bitter, Tom picked up his dinner fork and tried a bite of his crab at long last. 

“No, Barrow is.” Lord Grantham conceded. “But Carson is the elder statesman. He serves for larger parties, such as tonight.” 

“That makes sense.” Larry muttered to his plate, taking a bite of his crab. 

Tom looked up, catching Thomas’ eyes. “There was an insult in there somewhere.” Tom finally spoke for the first time that night. 

The atmosphere at the table shifted instantly. Lord Merton and Lord Grantham glanced at one another. Lady Grantham clutched her fork quite tight. 

“Why do you say that?” Amelia asked, trying for pleasant dismissal. 

“Because he always insults people.” Tom said. He turned, glaring at Larry from across the Dowager’s plate. 

“Tom.” Lady Grantham warned him from across the table. Her voice was soft, her tone ominous, her meaning clear: _Do not start a fight_. 

Sybbie had frozen in her chair, no longer eating dinner. Mr. Talbot had stopped eating as well, watching Tom and Larry intensely with knowing eyes. Unable to stop himself, Thomas reached out and placed his hands ever so carefully on the back of Sybbie’s chair to clutch the wood tight. 

Lady Mary leaned in, just a hair, to whisper to Sybbie out of the corner of her mouth, “Say nothing Sybbie. Say absolutely nothing.” 

“Larry-“ Lord Merton tried to take hold of the conversation, tried to steer it towards peace, “I invited you here tonight to make amends. Can we not at least attempt that? You are my oldest son, and I am your father. I do not wish to bicker with you all my life.” 

“And I do not wish to keep having this conversation.” Larry rounded on his father; there was such viciousness in his tone that Thomas felt affronted for Lord Merton’s sake. Tom was back to staring at Thomas from across the table. They were practically burning holes in each other’s skin. “I told your nursemaid of a wife that my views had not changed. I don’t see why you keep insisting that they do.” 

“And here we go.” Lady Merton muttered angrily into her wine glass. 

“Would you rather she be his undertaker?” The Dowager challenged, gesturing with Lady Merton with a wrinkled hand. 

“I’d rather she be his nothing.” Larry snapped, setting his fork down. So it seemed no one was eating anymore. 

Tom just kept staring at him. Waiting. 

“Well I am his wife!” Lady Merton snapped angrily, setting down her wine glass with a sharp snap on the table, “So that’s all there is to be said of it!” 

“Larry…” Amelia warned, placing one of her gloved hands upon her husbands own.   
An ugly silence fell upon the table. 

Carson jerked his head, catching Thomas’ attention. To try and divert the tension they changed courses, taking away the crab to put down vegetables of the season: sautéd asparagus, pea shoots, and shallots in a white wine sauce. Everyone tried their hand at eating again, small talk starting up in groups, but as Sybbie accidentally used her dinner fork again Lady Mary had to set her right. 

“No, darling.” She murmured, offering Sybbie her salad fork, “We use our salad fork for the vegetables.” 

From across the table, Larry gave an ugly snort. 

“Oh.” Sybbie said meekly, looking quite embarrassed with flushed cheeks. She timidly sat her dinner fork down to pick up her salad fork from Lady Mary’s gloved hands and eat the tiniest bite of asparagus. She’d go to bed hungry if she kept this up. 

“Very good.” Lady Mary would not be quailed by Larry Gray’s snide pessimism, putting down her own salad fork to show Sybbie how to hold her’s properly. “And hold your pinky just so?” She curved Sybbie’s little fingers gently around the handle of the fork, “There. See? You’re a proper lady.” 

Sybbie gave the tiniest smile but before it could grow Larry cut it short with an ugly snort again. 

“You have an odd definition of proper.” He muttered into his peas. 

Thomas glared at the man from across the table, wishing he could jump across it and just strangle him like he’d done to Bates. Lady Mary was just as angry, giving Larry Gray an icy stare of indifference as she said, “And I shudder to think what yours is.” 

“It certainly isn’t an oily driver for a husband.” Larry barbed. Mr. Talbot stopped eating his asparagus to look up, affronted. Lady Mary scoffed, angry. 

“I say, steady on!” Mr. Talbot snapped at Larry, “We don’t even know each other.” 

“Nor will we.” Larry sneered at the man. 

“There’s no need to snap.” Amelia reminded her husband, but it was fruitless at this point. 

“There’s every need, Amelia.” He warned, “Why was I even invited here?” 

“Because your father wanted to make peace!” Lord Grantham snapped, angrily jerking up from his plate. He’d not shouted in such a way since Sarah Bunting. “And you should let him!” 

“Oh yes.” Larry rolled his icy eyes, “Let him steam roll my principles to soften his pillow.” 

“Is it really steamrolling your principles or is it forcing you to accept that the world is not 1850 anymore?” Lord Grantham challenged. 

This dinner was going to hell in a hand basket. Tom was back to staring intensely at Thomas, just waiting… waiting… 

“Larry-“ The Dowager tried to reel the conversation back to a respectable pace and tone, “If anyone at this table longs for the past it is me. But there is a fine line between enjoying respectability and denying it completely.” 

“But you cannot tell me that you honestly approve?” Larry demanded of her. The Dowager shrugged politely, taking a small sip of her claret. 

“Whether I approve or not matters very little.” She reminded him lightly, “This is not my house anymore, nor is it my staff. The same goes for you!” 

Larry scoffed at this, taking a hasty sip of his claret as if finding his company so appalling that he’d just have to get drunk as quick as possible in order to endure it. 

Little did he know everyone at the table though the same thing about him. 

For a minute there was bitter eating as everyone stabbed their vegetables with their forks like they were being tortured for suspected treason. 

But Lord Grantham could not keep it under the hood; he was just too irritated to eat anymore, “And I don’t understand what your contention with my staff is!” 

Whether it was the wine in Larry’s system or his lack of patience, he finally lost all sense of gentlemanly decorum to tell everyone at the table exactly what he thought. 

“Well we can start with the fact that a mentally unstable lavender is serving your granddaughter-“ 

Tom lost it. 

He leapt up, his chair falling back to the ground with a clatter as he rounded on Larry with all the ferociousness of an 1,000 pound bull to yank him by the starched collar right out of his chair and punch him in the face with all the strength he could muster. The result was instantaneous as a sickening crunch and a gushing of blood heralded the onset of a broken nose. Larry Gray howled, crashing to the ground from the impact of Tom’s blow even as Tom made to follow him down with another punch at the ready. 

“Larry!” Amelia screeched, hands at her throat in the face of such viciousness. 

“Tom!” Thomas cried out, unable to stop himself. He was not alone; both Lady Mary and Mr. Talbot had shouted. Mr. Talbot jerked up from his chair, rushing around the table to grab Tom by the elbows to hold him back even as he kicked and squirmed to get loose. 

“Tom, no!” Mr. Talbot shouted him down. “Remember yourself, sir!” 

Sybbie let out a high pitched whine of distress, never one to cry but certainly crying now as she curled up in her chair to block out the sight of the chaos in front of her. The guise of butler fell from Thomas in an almighty crash as he yanked her chair back from the table and scooped her up at once. He held her in his arms, hiding her face in his neck even as Mr. Talbot wrangled Tom into fiery submission. Sybbie clung to him, terrified. Lady Grantham got up from her chair, coming around the table to place her hands comfortingly upon her grand daughter’s hair. She petted Sybbie in Thomas’ arms, soothing her as she murmured, “Don’t cry darling, don’t cry.” 

Lord Grantham threw his napkin upon his plate it defeat, rubbing his eyes haggardly as he let out a groan of disgust. 

Lord Merton bowed his head in shame and defeat.   
The olive branch was utterly rejected. 

 

In the mayhem of the ruined dinner party, unorthodox became the norm. Larry and Amelia left, absolutely furious, and spoke to no one as they exited the house to wait outside for the chauffeur to take them home. When Andy offered them their coats, they practically bowled him over with fiery looks of disgust and hands like vulture’s claws. Determined to keep Andy out of the line of fire, Thomas commanded him to take the dishes downstairs, and to instead offer up small bowls of fruit and sweet ice for the family in the sitting parlor. It was very foreign, very American, to eat away from the table but no one minded in the aftermath of such a shock. Tom left the party all together, storming upstairs and slamming the door to his bedroom shut so hard that one could hear it from the main hall. Carson did damage control, taking over without so much as a ‘how do you do’ to order Andy to serve coffee and tea to the family while they ate their little ‘desserts’. Thomas might tried several times to help, but it was fruitless. Sybbie cowered in his arms, crying into his neck, and he point black refused to put her down until she felt calmer. 

In the sitting parlor, both Thomas and Lady Grantham took charge in a way that was almost reminiscent of the days when Downton had been a convalescence. She lead conversation, he kept order, and so despite the earlier upset they all settled into their chairs as Lord Grantham, Lord Merton, and Henry each lit up cigars and shared brandy. Clearly they were more interested in smoking their worries away than eating fruit and shaved ice. 

Sybbie finally calmed down long enough for Thomas to sit her on the couch, though he still squatted before her and cleared her tears away with his silk handkerchief. Her face was bloodshot and red, puffy at the eyes and cheeks as Carson fetched her a shaved ice and Lady Grantham put her arm around her shoulders. 

“I am so sorry that you had to see that, my dear.” The Dowager sighed from her arm chair where she was perched like a very old and irritable crow, “but perhaps it does you good to know that not everyone in the world is friendly.” 

“But you were so well behaved through it all!” Lady Mary urged from Sybbie’s other side, patting her gently upon the knee, “And brava to you.” 

“Is… Is daddy in trouble?” Sybbie asked tearfully, looking first to Thomas at then to the others. He could offer her no more support, being forced up and away by Mr. Carson who glared at him across the back of the couch. Thomas let her hold onto his silk handkerchief as he took up a tray of coffee and began to pour fresh cups for those that had finished their first. His grip was shaking just as bad as Carson’s without the excuse of palsy to back him up. To keep the others from seeing he hid in the corner of the room. 

“No, Tom is not in trouble.” Lord Grantham grumbled from the opposite couch next to Lord Merton who puffed bitterly upon his cigar. “I dare say we’ve all wanted to strike Larry Gray on the nose at some point.” 

“Robert, I am so sorry.” Lord Merton murmured, titles dropped in a conveyance of honest humility, “Truly. I feel like I’ve invited the devil into your home.” 

“You did it with good intentions.” Was Lord Grantham’s reply, but it was a poor excuse when Sybbie was traumatized and Tom had no doubt broken some fingers. 

“We can hardly begrudge you for wanting to make peace with your children.” Lady Grantham added, every sympathetic with the under dog. 

“But perhaps now you see that peace cannot come from one side alone.” The Dowager advised, still huffy from a spoiled dinner. 

Thomas looked up at the ceiling, wondering at Tom right over his head. Was he pacing in his room? Was he trying to sleep it off? Should he still come to Tom’s room as he’d requested before dinner? Thomas could not find it in him to deny the man… not after all he’d suffered tonight. Yet after being called a ‘mentally unstable lavender’, Thomas was just as shaky as him. 

For some reason his mind kept jumping to his mother. Kept picturing her in one horrific scenario after the other: 

_His mother hanging from a noose in a closet, her face blue and drained of blood_. 

_His mother with blackened lips, charcoal filling her belly_. 

_His mother in a bathtub full of blood, her wrists slit-_

Thomas nearly dropped the tray of coffee, causing a slit rattle of cups and saucers as he set the tray back down and re steadied his grip. 

He suddenly wondered if the icy hands in the bathtub pulling him down and away had been his mother’s. It made him incredibly nauseas. 

Carson came up behind him at the sound of rattling porcelain. He set down his own empty tray which had been full of bowls of sweet ice, and leaned in to whisper harsh in Thomas’ ear. 

“Stop fidgeting and serve their coffee.” He warned, “Do not let them know you’re rattled.” 

Of course, of course. Thomas nodded, steeling himself as he put back on the servant’s blank and shoved all thoughts of his mother’s suicide into the back of his brain. He turned around, bearing a tray full of coffee as he went about the room serving the ladies a fresh cup only to take away their old ones. Most were too bent upon conversation to notice his clammy demeanor but as he reached Lady Merton she caught his eye forcibly to hold his gaze as he took her teacup. 

“Is everything alright?” She asked him. 

“M’lady.” Thomas bobbed his head a bit. He took her old coffee cup away and bore the full tray back to the serving station to fetch up a small platter of cream and cubed sugar. 

“Only to say-“ Lady Merton continued on, “If you’re upset perhaps you should turn in for the night as well-“ 

“I’m perfectly well, M’lady.” Was Thomas’ stiff reply. Who the hell did she think he was? He couldn’t just ‘turn in’, he was the butler for gods sake. As he turned back around to offer cream and sugar, he was suddenly caught off guard by Lord Merton who looked at him with such bizarre shame and humility that it stopped him dead. 

He’d never been looked at by a member of the gentry in such a way. Not even Philip. 

“… Barrow.” Lord Merton spoke up, humbled and laden with heartache, “I am truly sorry for the things my son said tonight.” 

Conversation came to the slightest pause. The Dowager glanced at him, as did Lord Grantham. Thomas re-steadied himself continuing to serve cream and sugar. As he drew nearer Lord Merton he finally replied, “I’ve known worse, M’lord.” For it was the truth. 

He didn’t care about Larry Gray’s opinion… he was a stranger to Thomas, and a pathetic one at that. But there had been men in his life whom he had cared for. Men who’s good favor he’d lost to his… stature. He tried desperately in that moment to not think of Jimmy Kent- to not think of his bloodless face wreathed in rage as he’d shoved Thomas out of his room. 

“I should hate to imagine that.” Was Lord Merton’s reply. 

Thomas returned his small tray to the bearing table; Carson kept watch over the entire room, monitoring his facial expressions closely. He could not drop the servant’s blank, not until it was safe. But even as he went to stand on the opposite side of the room near the door (as was customary when two upper staff members linked a room), Sybbie stopped him dead. 

“What’s a lavender?” She asked him. 

He froze mid step, blood draining from his face so that his lips suddenly felt incredibly cold. She turned upon the couch to stare at him, eyes wide as she looked to him for an answer. 

“Thomas?” She asked, waiting expectantly. 

And suddenly for the first time in his life, he could not look at her. He stiffened in his position, eyes upon the floor as he kept his face resolutely blank. The silence in the room was deafening as Sybbie turned back around on the couch to look at each of her elders in turn. Why was no one answer her, she must have wondered. 

“Is it bad?” She asked the room. Thomas turned his face to the wall, shamed.   
His cheeks were flushed now with embarrassment. He would not be able to hide behind the servant’s blank anymore. How could he explain to a child— a child that he loved no less— why it was that yes a lavender was bad, and yes he was one. That despite all her adoration of him… he was not the man she imagined him to be. 

That for all his love for her, he was also a gunsel, a sodomite, a catamite. 

“Why not check in on Tom, Barrow.” Lord Grantham spoke up in the silence, his tone tense as he cut across his grand daughter’s questions. “See if he’d like a cup of tea. I’m sure Carson can take over here. He has Andrew.” 

“… M’lord.” Thomas replied after a beat of a pause. He wondered if Lord Grantham could hear the humiliation in his voice. 

If Sybbie could see the defeat in his face. 

He turned away, exiting through the door to the main hall and gently pulling it closed to rest against the wall in the silence and gloom. To touch his brow and bow his head. 

He held back tears of self-pity but only barely. He’d known this day would come when the children would inevitably find out what he was… he’d only wish it hadn’t come so soon. Surely now, he would be divided from them forever… for how could their parents approve of him keeping their company when he was abnormal? 

“…Thanks Sybil.” He whispered softly into the air, noting that she had, after all, tried to warn him of this. “Much appreciated.” 

He headed for the gallery stairs, taking them slowly as he pondered over all of it: his mother’s death, Edwards’ growing resentment, Sybil’s bizarre numbers game, and Tom’s strange behavior. 

As he reached the top of the stairs, Thomas felt ten thousand years old; he practically drug his feet the rest of the way to Tom’s room. He knocked lightly upon the door, pushing it open to see Tom sitting at his writing desk with a half drunk glass of whiskey, head in hand. Bizarrely enough, the ouija board lay upon his bed, planchette and all. Thomas wondered why he was using it and when he’d gotten it out of Thomas’ room. Surely he must have fetched it when Thomas was working- but really… he need only have asked. Thomas would have gotten it for him. 

“…Here I am.” Thomas spoke up. 

“Close the door.” Tom replied, not even looking up from his palm. Thomas shut the door dutifully behind him, so that they were suddenly wrapped up in an ugly stillness thick with Larry Gray’s fading insults. 

All at once, Tom jerked out of his seat. He sipped at his whiskey, pacing back and forth, breathing hard as if he meant to start shouting and railing. Instead he slammed his whiskey down upon his desk so that it sloshed over the sides and continued to pace with his hands upon his hips. His tie was undone, his jacket and vest all forgotten. His hair looked like he’d run his hands through it several times. He was incensed, fuming… what on earth could Thomas say to him? 

“… Tom…” Thomas tried for bleak realism, “You knew this was going to happen. Sybil warned you-“ 

“No but you see that’s just it.” Tom overrode Thomas completely, tone harsh, “I didn’t know this was going to happen.” 

“Then you’re optimistic on a level that I cannot comprehend.” Thomas snapped right back. Tom ran a hand over his face, the smell of whiskey scenting the air. Thomas wondered how much he’d already drank while the others had been taking their coffee in the sitting parlor. 

“I’m not talking about Larry.” Tom muttered into his hand. He dropped his arm, turning to look away out the window of his bedroom which observed the western lawns. Wreathed in moonlight that illuminated the snow, it seem to cast an eerie glow over everything it touched. 

“Then who are you talking about?” Thomas asked, unsure. 

“You.” 

Tom just continued to stare out the window. Thomas felt his heart beat begin to pick up in his chest. Anxiety was creeping up on him again, though he knew Tom would never hurt him even if he was drunk. 

“… I don’t understand.” Thomas admitted. 

“I hate him god help me.” Tom whispered softly, staring out at the snow, “I wish I’d gotten a second punch in. He makes me so furious I want to scream.” 

Thomas swallowed, eyes drifting to the nearly finished glass of whiskey. 

“How much have you had to drink?” Thomas asked. Tom shrugged, turning back around to catch his eye. Despite Thomas’ urging that he ought to take a nap before dinner, it was clear Branson hadn’t slept all day or night. 

“Just a little bit to soothe me.” Tom said. Thomas nodded, somehow unable to meet Tom’s intense gaze. He instead reached out to Tom’s bed, taking up the ouija board to hold it against his chest. “…Are you alright?” He asked, stepping closer until they were side by side. 

“Oh I’m….” Thomas didn’t really know what to say. To be called a ‘suicidal lavender’ in front of a group of nearly ten people all of whom he knew personally and had to serve? He’d rather be shot for treason. His stomach flipped a little, and he hugged the ouija board closer as he tried to sooth his own nerves. “I’m…” He shifted from foot to foot, catching Tom’s eye. “I’m not surprised.” 

Tom stared, seemingly heartbroken by the frank reality of Thomas’ words.   
He drew in a shuddering breath, the aroma of whiskey thick around him. 

Then-

He shot forward, grabbing Thomas tight by the sides of his face to pull him in hard and fast. He kissed Thomas upon the mouth, all but swallowing his lips even as Thomas squeaked in fright and pushed against Tom’s strong chest with his free hand. He struggled, heart pounding in his chest as Tom’s tongue invaded his mouth, coaxing at his own even as his hands dropped to grab at Thomas’ hip and between his shoulder blades. 

Thomas’ mind reeled in panic! 

He struggled away, using the ouija board to smack Tom hard in the chest; he jerked clean of Tom’s mouth and hands, reaching back to slap Tom hard across the face. The sound was like a gun shot in the air, shattering the tense moment to leave nothing but horror behind as Tom gasped for air. His hands clutching vainly at the air, seeking Thomas’ form. 

Thomas took a step back, then another, absolutely shocked. 

He drew in a shuddering breath, touching his swollen mouth with trembling fingers still stinging from the burn of Tom’s cheek. 

“…Thomas…” Tom whispered, begging for mercy as he reached out again, “M’darlin… Please, let me explain-“ 

But Thomas could hear no more. It was too similar to the incident with Jimmy, too soon after a fresh altercation on his sanity, and Thomas was fragile like glass in Tom’s groping hands. He fled from the door, yanking it open hard and running into hall. He did not even bother to close it as he ran to the green baize door; did not look behind him to see if Tom was following him. 

He was oblivious to the way Tom cursed his own arrogance and rudeness, unseeing to how Tom reacted wildly and punched at the wall of his room only to break the plaster and two of his fingers in a yip of pain. 

 

Thomas hid in his room that night, not even bothering to turn in proper as he locked his door and slumped to the floor. In the dark, Thomas touched his lips still stained with whiskey and heat. The ouija board was cast aside upon the floor, the planchette clattering off to the side. He could not bother to put it up properly. 

Unable to resist, he ran his tongue over his flesh, tasted Tom’s tongue, Tom’s lips, even as his heart pounded in his chest. 

He’d been drunk, Thomas was certain of it. Drunk and confused, merely kissing him because of some crazy whim. No doubt he’d wake up tomorrow horrified at what he’d done and offer Thomas some silly apology. Promise to never do it again. 

Thomas would forgive him, of course. He had done foolish things while drunk too. They all did. 

But for now, in the quiet of his room, he would savor the kiss upon his lips. Even as it frightened him, he would revel in it. Even as it damned him, he would allow it. 

This was what it meant to be a gunsel, he reasoned. He eventually shed his clothes to crawl into bed, unsure of why he wanted to sleep naked. The sheets were warm against his flushed skin, soothing him as he laid his head upon his pillow. 

He licked his lips again, tasting the final remnants of Tom’s whiskey- of Tom’s kiss. 

He wondered if he’d ever be kissed by a man who meant it.   
He wondered if he’d ever be kissed at all. 

 

That night he dreamt of Tom. 

_He dreamt Tom was chasing him through the abbey. That they were running about the gallery halls and up and down the stairs. Tom was trying to catch him, trying to grab at him even as he jerked around corners and hid behind pillars. It was a game, and it was fun- he was in the lead even as he ran headlong for the Tom’s bedroom door. Unsure of why, he bolted inside to lock it and hide beneath Tom’s bed. Tom would never find him here, he was sure. Yet even as the door rattled and finally burst open Thomas knew Tom would find him… and was eager for it even as he clapped a hand over his giggling mouth._

_“…Where are you, cabbage?” Tom murmured softly. He looked in his wardrobe- “Not here.”_

_Thomas grinned, delighted at their game_. 

_“Where are you, m’dove?” Tom sing-songed, checking behind his floor length curtains. “Hmm.”_

_And then-_

_“Ah-! There you are, cabbage!” Tom grabbed him by the ankle and yanked him out underneath the bed. Tom’s grip was commanding and strong, grabbing him up only to throw him upon his own bed. Thomas lay beneath him, body feverish for what could next. But Tom just kept making him laugh, kissing his neck, cheeks, and lips- staining his skin with whiskey_. 

Thomas gasped, waking up from his dream only to imagine he was still in it. He turned upon his bed, naked, but something felt off.

He was frigidly cold. Frighteningly cold. Thomas blinked away, eyes staring blearily at the ceiling. It was still night, the moon high overhead though its beams were blocked by his dark red curtains. 

An odd scratching sound filled the air. It sounded like a tree was brushing at his window but that was absolutely impossible because he lived in the attics and there was no tree tall enough to reach his window on the grounds. He wondered if it was coming from an adjacent room, but no one lived on either side of him anymore; the hall was vacant save for Andy and Peter, both of whom lived on the opposite side of the hall as him. 

The scratching made his skin crawl. He closed his eyes trying to go back to— 

Something jerked at his foot. 

Thomas sat up in bed, covers falling off of him, and he shivered in the moonlight as he looked left and right. No one was there. 

It must have been his imagination. He settled back down into bed, wrapping himself up into this covers to give himself a sense of warmth. But even as he relaxed, even as he closed his eyes and steadied his breathing, the very life was shocked out of him as something grabbed his foot and gave an almighty tug! He was wrenched hard, falling out of his bed to hit the floor with a gasp as he scrambled and clutched his covers to his chest. 

Heart pounding in his throat, he clutched tightly at the bed frame behind him. Clutched at something solid and real even as he feared the very dark that lay around him. The scratching was starting up again, loud and thumping; Thomas could practically feel it in the wood beneath him. 

Petrified, Thomas held his covers to his naked chest and looked about the room. But he needn’t look far. 

The ouija board lay upon the floor vibrating. Violently. It was the source of the scratching noise. Even the planchette rattled though it did not even touch the wood. 

Thomas shuddered, shrinking up against his bed. What could it mean? He hadn’t even been conducting a seance. He hadn’t so much as looked at or touched the board! How on earth had it become so full of energy as to rattle upon his floor? 

Who was on the other side? Who had jerked him out of bed? 

But in a way Thomas already knew even as he crawled across the floor and grabbed the ouija board to shove it hastily into his bottom bureau drawer along with the planchette. Had it been his imagination or was the board frigidly cold? It had felt like it was made of ice instead of wood— frightened Thomas dashed back to his bed, grabbing his covers from the floor and wrapping them about himself for meagre protection as he shrank against his headboard. 

But the scratching wouldn’t stop. The whole bureau was beginning to vibrate now, bottles of hair tonic and tooth paste shuddering as Thomas’ mini mirror collapsed on its back and a box containing his shaving kit jumped closer to the edge. 

“Stop, Edward.” Thomas whispered, frightened into the air. “Stop. STOP!” He cried out loudly. 

The shaking stopped. A lone bottle of hair tonic rolled and fell off the edge of the bureau to clatter against the floor where it lay still. 

Terrified Thomas crouched against his mattress and hid with eyes wide open locked upon the bottom bureau drawer. The Edward he’d known, so gentle and loving seemed ten thousand miles away from this Edward he now had to face. An angry, violent Edward that jerked him from bed and frightened him in the middle of the night for dreaming of other men. 

He did not go back to sleep that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thus as our fable prophecy foretold: Whoomp, there it is. 
> 
> Bite my ass, Julian Fellowes.


	12. Don't Take Your Love to Town

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas makes some apologies.   
> Tom makes his case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the slight delay. I fell ill and had to recover. Thank you to each and every reader. I hope you enjoy this installment.

He sat and waited on the phone, but from the other end there was only silence. 

“…Are you angry?” Thomas spoke up, wondering if he’d crossed the line with Kinsey by telling him about Tom Branson’s unexpected kiss. Instead of having an immediate reaction, the good doctor had fallen into an odd silence. 

_“I’m writing actually.”_ Dr. Kinsey replied. He didn’t sound the slightest bit upset, _“I’m sorry I’m quiet; I’m not angry,”_ but after a pause he said, _“Are you angry?”_

That was a fair question, he certainly hadn’t been expecting for Tom to kiss him.   
“I’m shocked.” Thomas said, and it was the truth, “And… a little angry.”   
Mostly about the ‘unexpected’ part. 

_“At being kissed?”_

“Without warning.” Thomas grumbled. Not even so much as a ‘how do you do’ or ‘my name is’. Honestly, men these days. 

_“Do you love him?”_

The question sent a sharp shooting sensation from his stomach to his throat, and rendered Thomas silent. The fact of the matter was that he did care for Tom Branson very much. More than he ought to; more than society would ever allow. Tom lifted his spirits, gave him a connection to the world of the living, and provided him with insight while refraining from being condescending or cruel. Tom didn’t need for Thomas to be put through some kind of cleansing process in order to be decent for conversation. Unlike so many of the downstairs’ staff, Tom did not require an apology every time Thomas accidentally trod on his toes. No butter nor jam was needed in his pot. His cup was already overflowing. 

“… I have to go.” Thomas whispered, slightly frightened. 

_“Do not hang up the-“_ but before Dr. Kinsey could finish his sentence, Thomas quickly hung up the phone. 

In the deafening silence that followed, Thomas found himself staring meekly at the receptacle, wondering. 

~*~

Once when Tom had been very young he’d done something very stupid. 

He’d been about thirteen or so, determined to make mischief where ever he could in his rural Irish town, and had fallen in line with a bunch of boys way older than he that had far too much time on their hands. After supper and prayers they’d all slip out their bedroom windows and meet up in farmer’s fields to cause havoc in whatever way they chose. Sometimes they lit and danced about bonfires. They’d strip off naked and hold hands, screaming like they were celts. Other times they’d play games, in particular “Bullshite”. “Bullshite” was a simple game in which you found a pasture full of sleeping cattle, picked the bull out of the herd, and approached it as slowly and carefully as you pleased to place your hand upon the bull’s rump. Whoever kept their hand on the longest was the winner- unless the cow woke up and gored you alive. The first time Tom had played “Bullshite” he’d been the last to pull his hand away and the first to start screaming when the bull woke up and let him know just what he thought about an Irish Mick putting his hands on his ass. Tom had run for his life, screaming hysterically for his father to save him; he’d jumped a fence but the bull had plowed right through busting wood and iron aside to keep chasing Tom with blood streaming down his flank. By the time Tom had made it back to his house his father had met him at the front door with a shot gun and had had to put the bull down or risk the cow charging into his house and killing his whole family. 

Thus, at the age of 13, Tom had become employed by the farmer whose bull he’d effectively killed, and worked for him for free until he’d paid back the damage. It had taken in five years. 

That was, up to date, the stupidest thing Tom had ever done in his life besides accidentally setting an estate on fire and getting kicked out of Ireland. Kissing Thomas Barrow without a ‘good day sir’ was… well… 

It ranked right up there, an’ no mistake. 

When Thomas had slapped him, it had stung like a hornet against his cheek. Tom had wanted to take him in his arms, to explain, to sooth, to kiss again, but Thomas had run from the room like Tom from the long-dead bull. He’d been terrified of the same thing… a hand on his ass. This lead to Tom having lucrative fantasies of several gay men attempting to sneak up on Thomas in his sleep if only to get a grab. Thomas, of course, would wake up promptly and lose his mind. Tom would somehow save the day, he was certain. He’d say something witty like _“That’s for my hands only!”_ and somehow he was certain that Thomas would be downright delighted. 

And not slap him again. Or hit him with an ouija board. 

The day after Tom accidentally (not really accidentally) kissed Thomas on the lips, he had to tromp downstairs with a bandaged hand to big goodbye to Robert and Cora. It was easy to pretend that he’d broken his hand by punching Gray in the face; the truth came from the fact that Tom had punched his bedroom wall after Thomas had run away. He’d been so furious with himself, so utterly distraught by his lack of tact in such an important moment that he hadn’t been able to hold back. When Gertie had come in the following morning, she’d found Tom bleeding in bed and had run for Mrs. Hughes. He’d been woken up in groaning pain to find that his hand was swollen and blackened. His pinky and ring finger were broken, obviously in need of repair, and so Mrs. Hughes had had to wrap his hand in a cloth till Tom had promised to go see Dr. Clarkson later. The whole time he’d sat, watching her wrap his hand, and had wanted to cry out _“I’ve kissed Thomas Barrow!”_. Instead he’d kept silent, praying she wouldn’t see him sweating. 

He’d then dressed (slowly) and gone downstairs to bid Cora and Robert goodbye. 

Everyone was out front, lined up on either side in traditional format. Carson and Hughes kept the charge, overseeing Bates and Moseley as they loaded valises onto the back of their lone motorcar. Mary and Henry were out front, giving fond farewells. George and Sybbie stood side by side, giving plenty of kisses as Tiaa bounded at their feet. Tom observed them all, eyes searching as they swept from left to right. 

And there he was.

Standing straight backed and proud, Thomas kept his distance from the family as he oversaw the servants. Anna and Bates were saying goodbye, with little William in hand so that Bates might kiss him as well. They weren’t the only ones exchanging fond farewells. Moseley and Baxter were hand in hand, staring lovingly into each other’s eyes. For the first time in his life, Tom began to feel jealousy towards a loving couple. 

Thomas would not acknowledge at him, would not even look at him. Instead, Tom was as invisible to him as the gargoyles the framed the marble front steps. Tom watched him, forlorn, as Thomas went about his business. He supervised Andy putting up valises, then stepped to Carson’s side to watch as couples made their farewells. 

“It won’t be for long, Mr. Bates.” Anna murmured softly, William in her arms. Bates, dressed in travel wear, was a bitter man in his bowler hat. 

“But it’ll be too long for me.” Bates said. He leaned in, kissing his infant son upon the forehead. “I’ll come back my darling.” He said, though it was hard to say if he meant it for his wife or babe, “And until I do keep your chin up.” 

“You don’t have worry about us.” Anna jiggled William a bit in her arms, smiling sweetly. It was not the English way to kiss in public, and the Bates were far too conservative to exchange public affection. Instead they merely gazed on one another adoringly to the point of being ridiculous. “Though god I wish you weren’t going.” 

The pair of them turned to the Carson’s and Thomas, all of whom bid Bates farewell. Bates tipped his hat to Thomas, before looking to Mrs. Hughes. 

“Take care of my William for me.” He urged the aged housekeeper. 

“Of course.” Mrs. Hughes said, as good natured as ever. 

 

Only a few paces away, Moseley and Baxter were sharing a much more intimate farewell. They stood hand in hand before one another, looking at one another like Baxter was about to journey the globe with no set return date. 

“It won’t be long.” Baxter tried to console Moseley but the man would hear none of it. 

“It might as well be forever.” Moseley said. Baxter was wooed, and before either of them could get a handle on themselves, they kissed. Everyone feigned ignorance, as was the English way when confronted with the odd, but Thomas pretended to gag, tongue sticking out slightly as he pinched his eyes and looked away. When he opened them again, however, he suddenly found himself staring at Tom and blushed. 

_Please let me explain_ , Tom tried to convey with eyes, _Please_. 

Thomas looked away at once, turning his head in the opposite direction to address Baxter who was now walking up to speak with him. 

“Mr. Barrow.” She said with warmth, shaking his hand. 

“Return safely to us, Ms. Baxter.” Thomas said. She suddenly used his hand as leverage and quickly pulled Thomas in to kiss him upon the cheek. 

“Ah-!” He grimaced, pulling slightly back. There was a tense smile playing on his lips though. 

_I have kissed that face_. Tom thought, unable to stop himself. _I have kissed that man_. 

Last night, Thomas’ lips had been velvety soft, sweet like filtered whiskey. When Tom had claimed them he felt like a criminal. He wanted to own them, to kiss Thomas once more and this time fully enjoy it without being slapped. 

“Be good to yourself.” She urged. 

“Steady on.” Thomas said. Baxter came to stand beside Bates, the pair of them waiting to take off to France by leave of their employers. Now the final goodbyes came down to Robert and Cora who’d finished hugging and kissing Mary, George, and Sybbie to instead shake Henry and Tom’s hands. Robert’s grip was warm and sweaty in his own, endearing and good natured. He wondered if Robert would be smiling near as much should he proclaim loudly, _“I kissed Thomas Barrow!”_

He doubted it. 

“Well, Carson.” Robert proclaimed in that saintly way of his, clasping his long time butler’s hand in fond farewell. “This is goodbye.” 

“It’ll be a different life, M’lord, but I intend to make the most of it.” Carson declared. He was hardly a man to get misty eyed but he was certainly tearing up now. Thomas looked three shies away from pretending to barf again. 

“We leave with Carson and return home to Barrow.” Robert chortled. Cora, slightly more diplomatic in her approach, gave the appreciation everyone knew was coming. 

“You’ve worked so very hard to keep this abbey running Carson.” Cora said, smiling sweetly, “ We owe you an un-payable debt.” 

“There is no debt I acknowledge, M’lady.” Carson said, his voice growing gruff with emotion. Mrs. Hughes patted his arm sympathetically, “It has been an honor to serve this noble family.” 

“And now we’ll serve you, Carson.” Robert said with pride, “As elder statesman you are officially the final ledge in the sand to Downton, and who could ask for a better right hand man than Barrow?” 

Thomas dipped his head, “M’lord.” Unlike Carson, there was no groveling tone in his voice. 

“You must try to get used to the role while we’re away Barrow.” Robert said. Tom suddenly realized with all the force of a train smacking into him that he would now be alone in the house with Thomas for a solid month. Imagine the wooing he could do if only Thomas returned his affections, “When we return it’ll be all hands to the pump again. We leave Downton in your hands.” 

“May they prove worthy of the charge, M’lord.” Thomas replied. 

“We best be off.” Cora reminded Robert, “Or we’ll miss our train.” She touched the brim of her wide feathered hat, beaming as she kissed her grandchildren one final time. 

“Good ol’ Paris!” Robert clambered into the motorcar first, helped along by Bates who took his seat beside the chauffer, “I can smell the fresh baked bread now.” 

“I hope you have a wonderful time, M’lady.” Mrs. Hughes said, waving goodbye to Cora. 

“Oh I will.” Cora declared, gayly, “I only wish you were going with us.” She finally got into the car and Baxter shut the door, taking her own place beside Bates in the car. Henry shut the door after her so that everyone was ofiicially ready to go. They need only pull off now. 

“Goodbye, Tom!” Robert called from inside the car. Tom waved to him with his bandaged hand, “Try and get some rest, you look haggard.” 

“I’ve got a few things to iron out.” Tom admitted, decidedly leaving off the explanation that they involved wooing Thomas Barrow. 

“Take care of Tiaa!” Robert begged. 

“Of course.” Tom snorted. The dog in question was currently on its back, allowing George to scratch her belly. At such a young age, the dog wouldn’t notice much if her master was gone. No one wanted to tell this to Robert, though. 

Robert gave his bidding, and the chauffer was off. The entire house watched them go as the car pulled away, snow and slush churning beneath the heavy tires as the car slowly slipped further away up the drive. It was too the gate, taking a left, and just like that the others were gone. 

Tom wasted no time, stepping forward to catch Thomas’ attention. Thomas bristled as he approach and it sobered Tom up at once. He kept himself in check, making sure his expression was one of calm as he said, “Thomas, I need to talk to you about something.” 

Carson and Hughes were leaving back around the side of the house, taking Anna, William, and Moseley with them. Thomas was left alone out front as Mary and Henry slipped back into the house, taking George and Sybbie with them. Tiaa followed after everyone, eager not to be left behind. Suddenly it was only the two of them out in the cold, but Tom was practically steaming at the ears. In his eyes, the snow only made Thomas look more lovely, framing his porcelain skin and dark hair like powdered sugar atop a decadent desert. 

“M’darlin-“ Tom took a step closer but noticed Thomas took a precautionary step back, his eyes narrowed warily, “Thomas, I’m so sorry if I upset you last night. I didn’t mean to scare you-“ 

“It’s fine, Mr. Branson.” Thomas murmured, stinging Tom a little by using his surname. He held out a hand as if hoping to keep a physical boundary of air between them, “You were… not yourself.” 

“What?” Tom suddenly realized that Thomas must have been under the impression that he’d only been kissed because Tom had had a glass of whiskey. What a lark! It would take more than sip of fire water to make him kiss a man if he didn’t want to, “No. No, I wasn’t drunk. I mean- I’d had a glass-“ he wouldn’t deny the facts, “but I wasn’t drunk. No, darlin-“ he tried to take a step closer again. Thomas’ eyes widened was the tips of his fingers accidentally ghosted over Tom’s vest. He dropped his hand at once, looking like he might scatter at any second for fear, “Darlin…” Tom soothed him again, but it didn’t seem to work. Thomas just looked more afraid, “I kissed you sober. I wanted it. I knew exactly what I was doing but- I realize I-“ Tom watched as all the blood drained from Thomas’ face. 

He no longer looked wary. He looked angry.   
And that was not a good sign. 

“I should have made myself, my intentions more clear.” Tom begged, “And for that I ask your forgiveness-“ 

Thomas was glaring now. Tom’s mouth suddenly felt horribly dry. He’d have liked to grab a handful of snow if only to suck on it and gain back some moisture. 

“You’re not like me, Tom.” Thomas warned, his voice dangerous, “And this joke isn’t funny.” 

But it wasn’t a joke, not at all, and the fact that Thomas thought he would dare to make fun of such a thing burned him in an ugly way, “S’not a joke, Thomas.” Tom said. Thomas did not seem to believe him, “… I love you.” He whispered. 

He waited, praying Thomas would accept his intentions, accept him, but instead he merely stewed in an ugly angry state, turning on his heel to march away across the snow back towards the servant’s area. 

“Thomas, wait-!” Tom begged, but before he could give chase, before he could ask twice, Thomas was already gone leaving Tom alone in the snow. He’d never felt so cold before in his life. 

~*~

_“S’not a joke, Thomas.”_ Tom’s voice drifted through his ears like a pesky gnat that would not leave him be, _“I love you.”_

He scoffed again, unable to keep his irritation in as he flipped through page after page of instruction by Mr. Carson. While Lord and Lady Grantham were away the master suite was to receive a thorough cleaning. Everything from the bed hangings to the carpet had to be scrubbed, not to mention dusted and polished. Try as Thomas might, however, he was finding it increasingly hard to concentrate on his list when Tom Branson was in his head whispering things like: _“M’darlin”_ and _“I kissed you sober. I wanted it.”_

Poppycock. 

There was no conceivable way that someone as good and charming as Tom Branson could ever look at someone as malicious and dark as he only to see love. For god’s sake, he’d wooed Sybil Crawley. She’d practically been uplifted to saint hood in her death, and not without good reason. In comparison to Sybil Crawley, Thomas was practically Lucifer. 

As he sat pondering it all, stewing in self disgust and bitter reflection, a knock came upon his door only to reveal Mrs. Patmore bearing a tray of tea. It was down to the pair of them with Mrs. Hughes and Mr. Carson now officially out of the picture. They were out a housekeeper until one could be found, and the implications were severe. Until the maids had a leader they’d look to Thomas for direction. 

He didn’t exactly have the best reputation when it came to leading women, so- 

“So.” Mrs. Patmore sat down her heavy tray with a ‘clunk’, sitting next to Thomas as she pulled up a lone visitor’s chair, “It’s down to you and it’s down to me.” 

“And whomever the new housekeeper might be.” Thomas conceded. 

Mrs. Patmore poured them both tea, passing Thomas over a steaming cup. He added a dash of honey and lemon. “I won’t lie and pretend it’ll be easy giving the reigns over.” 

“Mrs. Hughes was the perfect housekeeper.” Thomas said, “I admit it. We need someone adaptable to change who strives for the standards of the past. Not easy.” 

“But Mrs. Hughes is looking too.” Mrs. Patmore said, for it was no secret that Mrs. Hughes didn’t know how to go into retirement without a fight and was therefore now spending her time searching for a new applicant. 

“She wants to hire internally.” Thomas said, “But I can’t see Anna or Ms. Baxter giving in.” 

“And Ms. Baxter is about to become Mrs. Moseley.” Mrs. Patmore tittered, sipping her cup of tea. 

For a moment it was just the pair of them, and it reminded Thomas of how early last summer Mrs. Patmore had gone so far out of her way to ensure that he’d not taken up her meat cleaver twice. It shocked him to realize that he’d once held himself hostage before her. That he’d tried to cut his throat with one of her knives- and been reduced to a blubbering mess on Ms. Baxter’s shoulder when his plan had failed. That seemed like a lifetime ago. Like a million years from where he sat now, butler to Downton Abbey. But it had happened, and there were leather cuffs on his wrists to prove it. He could no more deny his past than he could deny his skin. 

“… Did…” Thomas paused, having to regain proper use of his voice, “Did I ever thank you? For all the kindness you showed me last summer.” 

“No.” Mrs. Patmore huffed, “But that’s not out of the usual for you.” 

It stung, to know she thought so little of him even now. “Just because I don’t voice my gratitude doesn’t mean I don’t feel it.” 

“Well voicing it would be nice.” 

He watched her sip her tea. Noticed the lines around her mouth and eyes, how her once flaming red hair was slowly turning iron gray. It shocked him to realize that she was growing old. That one day this unstoppable woman would die, and be no more. It seemed impossible, but he knew it was true. 

“Thank you.” Thomas said, “Truly. You were incredibly kind to me. More than I deserved.” 

Mrs. Patmore just smiled, pleased by his words. She sat her teacup down and silently took up a biscuit, dipping it into her brew as she said, “Well, I reckon a bit of kindness would do you good.” 

But as Thomas watched her munch on her biscuit he reasoned how the kindness he’d been shown really hadn’t done him much good at all. Tom had been incredibly kind to him as fo late, but what had that come down to? Now Tom was foaming at the mouth, saying that he was in love with Thomas (which he was not) and trying to snatch a kiss when he could. Their time with the ouija board and the numerology codes had clearly addled Tom’s brain; worst of all, Thomas could confide in no one about his strife. If he were to tell Mrs. Patmore that he had been kissed by Tom Branson, he was pretty certain her hair would burst into flames. 

The thought made him morose, and he paused setting his teacup down. 

“What’s gotten into you?” Mrs. Patmore demanded. “You look more gormy than usual and that’s saying something.” 

“I just… need to talk a walk.” Thomas summoned an excuse as best he could, rising up from his chair, “Thank you for the tea.” 

“Oh well don’t mind if you do!” Mrs. Patmore grumbled, but she took no offense as she piled their cups back onto her serving tray and headed out the room after him. 

 

  
It felt good to walk, to get some cool fresh air into his lungs. Unsurprisingly the sky was overcast, but the sun was trying its hardest to break through and Thomas appreciated the effort. For good measure he took Tiaa with him, and she bounded ahead to roll in the snow. Thomas even played fetch with her, picking up a slightly too-large stick and throwing it high overhead so that she went sprinting after it to drag it back. She essentially walked with the stick in between her pudgy legs, unable to get a good grip in her mouth but she didn’t seem to care. Thomas looked behind him to see an obvious track from where they’d walked— he’d essentially gone in circles. 

“C’mon, Tiaa!” Thomas grabbed the stick back from her, tugging slightly till she finally let go. The tip was wet with her slobber but he didn’t mind. He looped the stick hard around his head like a cowboy would a lasso and tossed it high into the air so that it fell over a rise on the horizon. Tiaa went scampering after it, leaving him momentarily alone. “Go get it! Good girl!” 

He heard her yipping over the rise. Then she returned over the rise holding something in her mouth— oddly enough, it was a trilby hat. She bounced back and forth at Thomas’ feet and he crouched down to tug it free of her mouth. He dusted it free of snow to note that it was a fashionable brown with a dark leather band. Hardly a stick. 

“That’s rather fanciful for a stick.” He told her, but before he could contemplate any of these oddities further, Tom Branson appeared over the same rise, clearly missing his hat, and Thomas grimaced turning to run as he threw down the hat. 

“Never mind, you can have it back!” He told Tiaa, taking off for the yard. 

“Thomas, wait! Wait!” 

But Thomas did not wait. He didn’t want to have another conversation with Tom about him being in ‘love’ with Thomas when all he really was was confused and slightly drunk on whiskey. He found a large tree and hid behind it, but it was fruitless when Tom could simply follow his footprints and know where he’d gone. Determined to keep out of sight, Thomas remained absolutely silent and pressed himself against the bark of the tree. He looked left over his shoulder but didn’t see time. He looked right-

Tom whipped around the tree and pressed Thomas up against the trunk. He cried out, suspecting attack. 

“Stop!” Thomas cried out. 

“I’m not going to attack you!” Tom begged him, cupping Thomas’ freezing cheeks in his hands. His fingers were like fire and Thomas jumped as if burned; Tom’s bandaged hand was bruised and swollen, “I just want you to stay still for five seconds-“ 

“Step back from me at once!” Thomas commanded. At once, Tom dropped his hands and stepped back, keeping a respectable distance between them. Tiaa returned, skipping around at their feet. She still had Tom’s hat in her mouth. Thomas re adjusted his coat, cheeks burning with embarrassment as he hastily ran a hand through his hair. 

“What do you want?” Thomas demanded. Tom looked slightly hurt, chewing nervously upon his lip as he gestured his hands fruitlessly. 

“To talk.” 

“I don’t want to talk.” Thomas said. At this point he’d rather get in a ring fight with a bull. 

“Thomas-“ 

“I have nothing more to say-“ 

“But I do!” Tom begged. He seemed ready to tear his hair out with frustration and it frightened Thomas, “I have a million things to say, when I care for you so-“ 

But he didn’t He didn’t care for Thomas and Thomas couldn’t figure out where and when Tom had gotten it into his head that he did. 

“Listen to me-“ Tom begged, “Just listen to me-“ 

Thomas pressed himself against the bark of the tree, his heart pounding in his throat. Tom seemed to realize he was working on borrowed time and so he talked quickly. 

“Sybil’s mystery was your name. Your name means twin! It’s Thomas in numerology— 286411! New love, your name, Thomas it was all a sign! Sybil was leading me to you! Don’t you see, you and I we were meant for each other-“ 

But Tom was making no sense- he was scaring him, and Thomas hadn’t been scared of another man since his father. He had no where to go pressed up against the tree, an in an effort to get away from Tom ducked underneath his arm to run away back into the field. Tom looked more hurt than ever. 

“Stay away from me!” Thomas cried out in warning. He left Tiaa there, the only care giver for Tom who, depressed, slumped against the tree. He sank down into the snow, his head in his hands. 

 

Thomas spent the rest of the afternoon hiding in Mr. Carson’s office, directing maids with lists for cleaning and allowing Andy and Peter to essentially do as they pleased. As a result, Peter went down to the village to get more cigarettes and Andy spent the entire day in the kitchen desperately flirting with Daisy. Apparently over New Years Daisy had started turning her eye to Andy which had thus sparked smoke into flame. Andy wasn’t the type to write soppy poetry or woo a lady with flowers— No Andy much preferred to do more manly things like lift Mrs. Patmore’s entire iron pot rack to move it halfway across the room in order for Daisy to clean underneath it. Thomas had entered the kitchen to watch Mrs. Patmore and Daisy make dinner only to find Andy flexing his muscles beneath his livery for Daisy’s inspection— apparently she’d doubted they’d existed. Then Daisy had declared no matter his strength Andy couldn’t lift her up. 

Andy had then proceeded to try until Mrs. Patmore had thrown a dirty rag at him and told him to ‘take a hike’. Andy had taken this to mean ‘sit in the corner of the room next to Thomas and share his biscuits’. Now Thomas and Andy were both sitting at Mrs. Patmore’s sitting table 

“Andy’s such a help to Mr. Mason on the farm.” Daisy gloated from her stove where she stirred two saucepans at once. Apparently tonight’s upstairs dinner would consist of cold chicken, winter season vegetables, and dipping sauces to go along with it. “I feel like a stump compared to him.” 

“Mr. Mason longs for your company,” Mrs. Patmore reminded her kindly from the sink even while Andy beamed and smugly shoved two biscuits in his mouth at once, “and that’s more than a pair of muscled arms can accomplish.” 

Andy deflated slightly, crumbs dripping from the corners of his mouth.

“I’m so glad to be living with him now.” Daisy admitted, “I won’t lie, it’s like I have my own house.” 

“You do!” Mrs. Patmore said, smiling. She moved a massive chopping board onto the kitchen island and began slicing cold chicken with such speed it was a miracle that she didn’t clip her fingers, “When Mr. Mason passes over it’ll be your house, and your husband’s whomever he may be-“ Mrs. Patmore slyly looked over to Andy who had now nearly eaten all the biscuits. 

Thomas paused, noting the knife she was holding.   
He knew that knife. 

“Don’t start.” Daisy warned. 

“I’m not starting anything-“ 

He’d had this ugly feeling in his gut that he wasn’t worthy of Tom’s feelings, though he hadn’t been able to truly place why. Yet as he noted the meat clever in Mrs. Patmore’s meaty fist Thomas suddenly realized just why he could never return Tom’s affections- anyone’s affections. 

He was spoiled and meant for the dead.   
He wasn’t healthy enough for life. 

Shame curled hot and fast in Thomas’ stomach, making him feel nauseas even as Mrs. Patmore and Daisy went to war over an oblivious Andy. 

“The last time I had a sweet heart you made me wed him even when I didn’t want to.” Daisy paused stirring her sauces to check a large copper pot that was boiling with a thin vegetable soup. She tested the broth with a massive wooden spoon, tasting it with pert lips only to wipe her spoon on her apron and put a dash of salt and pepper into the pot. She stirred it heavily and let it continue to boil. “This time I’m going to court at my own pace for my own purposes!” 

“Well!” Mrs. Patmore huffed, affronted, “Excuse me if I cared for your happiness—“ 

Thomas watched her slice that chicken, wondering at the speed with which she moved. Was it just her grip on the knife, or was it the edge of the blade that made the cuts so smooth? Without thinking Thomas lifted a hand to his neck thinking of the wound he’d made there on accident. How Mrs. Patmore, Mrs. Hughes, Ms. Baxter, and Mr. Carson had all gaped at him horrified in the far hallway, backing him into a corner until he’d had no choice but to drop the knife. 

But what if he hadn’t.   
What if he’d just… 

“And you-!” Mrs. Patmore turned on Thomas, but he was so lost in his thoughts that he did not happen to notice her. Aggravated Mrs. Patmore took her knife and slammed it into the cutting board so that it stuck straight up. 

Thomas jumped a bit in his seat; the noise startled him clear back into the present where Mrs. Patmore was glaring at him like he’d committed treason. 

“Sitting in my chair and gobbling up my biscuits-“ Thomas glanced back at Andy who still had crumbs on his face. That was hardly a fair accusation, Thomas hadn’t eaten more than two-! “Moping about like a frog in the grass. Dare I ask what troubles the mighty butler, Mr. Barrow?” 

The fact of the matter was there was no way to tell her or anyone else what was troubling him without setting her hair on fire (as before stated) so Thomas merely put his cheek in his hand and shook his head. He looked at the far doorway, wondering what it must have appeared like when he’d come skittering around dripping in sweat only to grab a drying meat cleaver from the island. Mrs. Hughes had been sitting in the very chair he was occupying. 

“… I’ve been thinking about last summer.” Thomas admitted, knowing full well only Andy and Mrs. Patmore would get the full gist of his statement. Daisy was busy pouring a light cream into the soup- she wasn’t paying attention anyways. 

“What do you mean?” Mrs. Patmore asked. 

“You know what I mean.” He cut her off, glaring at her momentarily only to recognize his bad behavior and stop it. He took a sip of cooling tea, bitter at its lack of heat. 

Mrs. Patmore pursed her lips and gently tugged the meat cleaver out of the wooden island cover. She used the side of the blade to ferry cold chicken onto a decorated porcelain plate that would no doubt go in the refrigerator until supper time. 

“Don’t fret over that.” Mrs. Patmore finally said. Thomas noted Andy was watching him warily, though he still hadn’t dusted the crumbs from his face. Thomas tapped the side of his cheek for Andy to see, and Andy hastily wiped his lips with the back of his hand. The boy needed a handkerchief. “What’s done is done. You’ve a good life now. Work to make it better. Don’t lament over the past.” 

“Lament over what?” Daisy asked, looking over his shoulder. Mrs. Patmore coughed, storming over to the stove to distract her at once as she tasted Daisy’s soup. 

“Lament over that stew is what!” She cried out, brandishing Daisy’s large tasting spoon in her face. Daisy blinked owlishly, “Don’t expect me to offer it up to Lady Mary when it looks like curdled cheese!” 

Thomas was starting to get a headache. Exhausted he rose from his chair to leave the kitchen without bidding any of its occupants goodbye. He ought to get started decanting the wine for dinner. As he turned around the corner he heard Mrs. Patmore call after him- 

“Thomas-! Oh… never mind.” she huffed. It was far too late to call him back now. 

“What were he on about?” Daisy wondered, returning her gaze back to her stew to keep it up to Mrs. Patmore’s mighty standards. 

“Never you mind,” Mrs. Patmore warned, “and fix that stew before I box your ears.” Yet as she opened the refrigerator to fetch eggs for that nights appetizers she stopped, flabbergasted. 

“Oh-! I need more eggs.” She huffed, undoing her apron to hang it on a wall rack, “I’ll go collect them.” 

“I can do that.” Andy urged, rising out of his chair.

“No, no. I won’t have you spoiling your trousers before dinner.” Mrs. Patmore waved him off, leaving the kitchen in a huff. 

Now finally alone with Daisy, Andy swooped around the island to take her about the waist and gently place his chin upon her shoulder. 

No one knew yet. Not even Mrs. Patmore— they’d been seeing each other since January fifth. Andy kissed Daisy’s cheek, making her blush even as she gently swatted at him with her dried tasting spoon. Andy dodged the minimal attack, kissing her once again upon the cheek. 

“What did she mean by lamenting over the summer?” Daisy asked softly as she continued to stir her soup. She wanted to taste it one more time just to be sure it was up to snuff now that the cream was beginning to simmer. “The summer was pretty mild compared to some of Mr. Barrow’s exploits.” 

Andy nuzzled her cheek, smelling the cinnamon and clove that always seemed to hang in the air around her. It reminded him of his youth when his mother had baked apples for desert. “If I tell you will you promise not to breath another word to another soul?” 

Daisy smiled, nodding. She suddenly found herself very curious to know what Thomas had done; he was such a bad boy. Andy leaned in, turning his lips to her ear so that he might whisper directly to her. 

Daisy continued to smile, but only for a second. Soon her expression faltered and faded. She stared, wide eyed and unseeing at her occupied stove range. 

Her tasting spoon clattered to the ground, falling from her slack hand. 

~*~

Thomas sat decanting wine in Mr. Carson’s office, desperately trying to keep from thinking about the summer. He was going to start going through employee files if he couldn’t get out of his funk. Maybe he’d find something bizarre in Bates’ folder— better yet he could write something naughty and wait to see how long it would take Mr. Carson to find it. Oh the fun he could have with his ink pen! 

But before that snarly little thought went too far, there came a hesitant knock upon his door and Thomas called for an ‘enter’. 

It turned out to be Daisy bearing a small tray with nothing more than a cup of tea on it. She closed the door after her, looking oddly… meek. 

“I brought you some tea and a biscuit.” Daisy said; Thomas noted there was a biscuit on his saucer as well. This was slightly odd— he’d only had a cup of tea a moment before but it had been horribly cold so why not? A fresh brew could always do him good. 

Still that didn’t solve the mystery of why Daisy looked so pale. 

“Thank you.” Thomas gestured for Daisy to sit the teacup down on his desk. 

Daisy watched him decant his white wine silently, chewing upon her lip and twisting her fingers. 

Thomas sat the bottle down, wiping at its moist lip with a clean cloth. He’d have been a fool not to ask at this point: “Yes?” 

“…Only…” Daisy was incredibly hesitant. Why did she keep looking at his hands. Thomas glanced down to see that they were doing nothing abnormal- merely holding a cloth and the neck of a wine bottle. “Only I heard something and I… I…” 

What in the hell had she heard? Was there another war on with Germany? “Daisy?” 

“Oh Thomas-“ Daisy blurted out, downright fretful as she beseeched him, “Why did you do it?” 

… Why did he do what? What did he do? Thomas narrowed his eyes quizzically. Daisy was practically blinking back tears at this point and it disturbed him horribly as he looked down at his hands again to where she gazed— 

The edges of his leather cuffs were poking out of his livery again. 

Thomas sat down in his swivel chair, putting both his cloth and wine bottle down to rub bleakly at his throbbing temples. He really needed a beachams. Daisy sat down too, taking his visitor chair; her eyes never left his wrists. 

Thomas kept following her line of sight, watching how despite sitting before him she never looked at his face… only his hands. 

“… Do you want to see?” Thomas finally asked, sensing that it was what needed to be done. That Daisy, almost like a child, needed to confront the truth physically before understanding it fully. She looked him in the face and nodded, still afraid but unwilling to waver. Thomas nodded his head to the door and she rose up at once to lock it even as he began to unbutton the cuffs of his livery. 

He did the same routine at night, though he never fully looked at his wrists. It hurt too much. 

Daisy returned to his desk, eyes wide as she observed the full length of his leather cuffs. Thomas did not treat her gently, trusting her as an adult to be able to handle herself as he unlaced his leather cuffs and let them fall away. 

He lifted up his wrists, propping his elbows upon his desk to show Daisy the damage. 

She clapped a hand over her mouth and looked away at once, terrified. 

For a minute it was just Thomas watching Daisy’s back as she slowly regained her self of self. When she stuttered back around, hand shaking at her mouth, she had to glance three times more at his wrists before finally begin able to look at the wounds without turning away. Thomas let her get her fill, understanding this would be a one time event. Daisy sniffed, nodded her head, and dropped her hand to her chest as if to feel her pounding heart. 

Thomas took back up his leather cuffs and at once wrapped his wrists. He tucked his livery back into place, buttoning his cufflinks. 

Daisy all but collapsed into her chair, white as a sheet. 

Thomas relaxed in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest.   
Daisy sniffed, touching the tip of her red nose with the back of her hand as she regained control of herself. Her teacup remained untouched. 

“Who told you?” Thomas asked calmly. 

“Andy.” She whispered. Thomas nodded; it made sense. He had a feeling there was something going on between the pair of them, and if rumors served right Andy had been the one to help Baxter find him in the tub. It was difficult to know though. He could hardly ask out loud. 

“Oh Thomas…” she shook her head again, horrified, “Didn’t you know you were cared for?” 

“I’m not.” Thomas rose up from his chair, walking away to instead stare out his window at the tree which boasted a robins nest. It was laced in snow; the birds were no where to be seen. Perhaps they would return with spring. 

“You are!” Daisy urged. Thomas paid her no mind. She might be genuine but that did not mean she was accurate. “I care about you!” 

“You called me a thief.” Thomas snapped bitterly. “You thought I stole Lady Grantham’s jewels.” 

“Well it just seemed odd and you did steal wine. And a snuffbox.” Daisy reminded him. 

Thomas cocked and eyebrow but said no more. 

“Mrs. Patmore cares for you, and Mrs. Hughes—“ 

But he’d heard this line before. Several times in fact. Yes, yes, yes, Mrs. Hughes and Mrs. Patmore cared about everyone in the house but that hadn’t stopped him from nearly cutting his neck with a meat cleaver had it? The only thing that had really saved him out of his suicidal slump, out of his near installment to Briarcliffe, had been the children. 

“Daisy, there is no one on this earth who cares about me.” Thomas snapped, determinedly not thinking about Tom Branson or how blistering hot his lips had felt against Thomas’ cold flesh, “And you know it so stop lying.” 

Daisy tensed in her chair, cowed. 

“…I’m vile.” Thomas said as he stared out the window. How odd to say these granted facts out loud. To finally voice them to the air. “I’m vile and everyone in this house wants me gone. But for some reason I’m still here.” Thomas paused, glancing down at the leather cuffs on his wrists. Had it been a cruel trick of fate to make him live twice when he’d only wanted to die? “… Though why I couldn’t tell you.” 

“…S’not true.” Daisy mumbled, “Or did you forget I loved you once?” 

What courage it must have taken to say such a thing to him when he had a grizzly reputation in the house. Thomas turned around to observe her, to note how beautiful she’d become in womanhood. Thomas had been so preoccupied with becoming butler and Tom that he’d not been able to thoroughly appreciate Daisy’s haircut but he’d be a fool to deny that it flattered her immensely. Could it be said that she likened to Clara Bow? It was difficult to say. Thomas wasn’t exactly the best judge of beauty in women… yet he looked at Daisy like his little sister in a way that he never could have done for his actual little sisters and often felt quite proud of her. He’d have been a lucky man to win her hand. 

But she’d always been William’s. 

“…You did love me once.” He reasoned with her, remembering how she’d so often clung to him in her pink striped frock— always at his elbow, always fetching and carrying for him. 

_“I’d do anything for you.”_ She’d whispered to him once. Not even Philip had been so outwardly spoken in his affections. 

“And yet I treated you like dirt.” Thomas finished turning back to the window so that Daisy could not see the shame on his face. He’d been a right bastard an’ no mistake, “And I am so sorry for that.” 

Daisy was silent from her chair. 

“You deserve everything good in this world, Daisy.” Thomas murmured, his breath frosting the frigid window pane, “Truly. I hope you know that.” 

“Why.” Daisy finally gained the courage to speak again, though her voice was quite steady, “Why were you so mean to me, when I loved you?” 

“Because I could not love you back.” Thomas had admitted. Oh the shame he’d felt, laying in bed even as he’d listened to William snore through the walls. He’d pleasured himself with his hand, thinking of Philip fucking him into the mattress only to wash his skin clean of release and trudge back downstairs the next morning to pretend to be normal. “And it… burned me.” Thomas clenched his fists tight, “Like a brand.” 

_Child Molester_

_Pervert_

_Degenerate_

_Filth_

Thomas suddenly realized his head was bounding and rubbed at his temples again. God he needed a Beachams badly. 

“It’s alright.” Daisy finally murmured; thank god she talked so softly. Thomas might have wept at a loud noise, “Don’t think I’m your type to be honest.” 

If only she were. If only she were. 

“No.” Thomas mumbled. He returned and took his seat back, closing his eyes to rub at his temples. Daisy watched him for a moment before reaching into her apron. She fished about for a moment, clearly having to dig something out of the corner as she finally withdrew a small package of— oh god bless— 

“Here.” Daisy offered softly, extending her hand to give him the powdered Beachams. He took it at once, tearing off the paper top and throwing the whole thing back before chasing it with his still-hot tea. The taste was foul but soon faded from his mouth as he folded up the paper package and put it in his trouser pocket. God bless Daisy Mason. 

“Something’s got you down.” Daisy said, “What is it?” 

“Someone’s kissed-“ Thomas said, before stopping himself and putting a crooked finger to his lips. 

_Fuck_. Well hadn’t that just flown right out of his damn mouth. What was in Beacham’s again? Gin? Thomas fingered the paper package in his pocket, hoping Daisy hadn’t heard… but of course she had. Her eyes were gleaming with fresh gossip. 

“Kissed?” She carried out, a grin crooking at the corners of her mouth. 

_You little witch_. Thomas wanted to spank her for her poking. 

“… Someone has kissed me.” Thomas finally admitted bitterly, looking away so as not to stare Daisy in the face during his confession. He felt rather like a sinner seeking a priest. “And I’m unsure how I feel about it.” 

Daisy was beaming now. She scooted forward till her knees were practically touching the front of Thomas’ desk. 

“Someone kissed you?” She breathed, delighted. “Who?” 

_Tom Branson_. Thomas said loudly in his head. His temples throbbed and he rubbed them delicately. 

“I can’t say.” Thomas muttered, bitterly, “It makes it worse because everyone has someone and… and I just want someone to love too… but now I’ve been kissed and-“ 

And still it can’t be the same. 

“Do you love him?” Daisy asked, her tone turning slightly worried. 

“I don’t know.” Thomas sighed heavily, resting back on chair. Did he love Tom? “He’s certainly funny, and charming-“ He propped his head with a hand, “He’s honest and smart-“ 

“Is he handsome?” Daisy asked with far too much cheek in her voice. 

And yet even as he turned to answer her with the coy reply that he did not kiss ugly boys, he was suddenly struck at something Daisy had said: 

_“Do you love him?”_   
_“Is he handsome?”_

Thomas paled, his lips suddenly feeling numb on his face as he sat up straight in his chair. 

“…Did…” Thomas coughed, trying to hide the fear in his voice, “Did you just say _‘he’?”_

_How the fuck will I dig my way out of this?_ he wondered, horrified. He’d have to claim ignorance. Blame it on the headache. 

Yes, that’s what he’d do- 

But Daisy was smiling, blushing a bit as she looked at her knees, “I didn’t catch on for a bit till Anna told me the ‘big secret’.” She huffed as if there was nothing ‘secret’ or ‘big’ about it, “Mrs. Patmore was always going on about how you were a ‘troubled soul’. It wouldn’t have taken her two minutes to say what you really were. Not interested.” Daisy shrugged. “It made it easier for me once I knew. I thought you hadn’t loved me because I was ugly-“ 

“Daisy you are _not_ ugly.” Thomas snapped. He’d break the neck of anyone who said otherwise, “So don’t say that.” 

She smiled, chuffed.   
Thomas blushed, rubbing his fingers together as he drummed them nervously upon the armrest of his swivel chair. 

So she knew the truth. She’d known it all along. How did he speak to her now? 

“Who kissed you then?” Daisy urged. “Tell me.” 

Thomas shook his head, looking away. Even if Daisy knew that the cat was out of the bag, there was no way he’d give her the real scoop, “I can’t say.” Thomas said softly, “It’s not the same as it would be with a… girl. There’s more at stake.” 

“ I know. I’m not daft.” Daisy said softly, nodding. “But… you can tell me, right? A trouble shared is a trouble halved.” 

“But if I told you, you’d tell everyone.” He reasoned. Daisy couldn’t keep a button it to save her life. Hell, she’d told Alfred Jimmy and Ivy were kissing in the boot room and she’d been in love with him, “And I can’t have anyone know.” 

“I promise not to tell!” She was practically begging now, back to being on the edge of her seat, “Cross my heart and hope to die.” 

“You just want to gossip.” 

“Don’t be nasty.” She said cross, “I want to help.” 

The tension in the atmosphere was killing him. He had no intentions of telling Daisy the truth but if he could have a little fun with her then why not? He may not be as nasty as before but he still had a bit of mischievousness in him. 

“Mr. Carson.” Thomas declared. Daisy burst out laughing at the thought, taking a frayed lace handkerchief out of her pocket to toss it at his face. He caught it before it ever touched his skin and handed it back to her even as she got her laughing under control. 

“Thomas-!” She was red in the face, “What a thing to say!” 

“I’m sorry Daisy.” Thomas said, and he quite meant it. He honestly did wish he could tell her- could tell anyone… but that just wasn’t the way for his lot in life, “But I can’t tell you.” 

Her laughter died away and she coughed, putting her handkerchief back into her pocket. 

“… Well.” Daisy murmured, “I wish you could.” 

Thomas smiled, picking back up his tea cup and toasting her with it. It was turning lukewarm but for the first time in his life he didn’t mind, “I’ll take the tea anyway.” He said and gave another hearty sip. 

~*~

Thomas’ day might have taken a slight turn for the better but Tom’s was steady taking a turn for the worse. All afternoon he’d sat in the green house, kept company only by dying plants and the rare winter herb that flourished in the cold. He’d tried to wrestle with the exhaustive sorrow in his chest, but just like before when Sybil had spurned him he felt utterly dejected. A failure. 

And why should Thomas want him? What was he really? A chauffeur who got lucky; a failure of a father. A fire-happy Irish radical who couldn’t keep his mouth shut or his hands to himself. He was overweight and he knew it; he might have once been alright looking but now? Now he was just plain sloppy. He wasn’t up to date, up to the times… up to the task. Thomas Barrow was a classy man; only an equally classy man could court him. 

There was also the fact that Tom had a child. No wonder Thomas had run from him like the plague. 

Miserable, Tom returned to Downton as the sun began to set in order to change for dinner. His hand ached horribly and he wondered if he ought to pay a visit to Dr. Clarkson. Tonight they were holding court with the Dowager who seemed to have found it imperative that she dine with the family despite Cora and Robert being away… or rather because of. She took Robert’s chair while he was away, simply because she ranked the highest among the five of them. Sybbie still had to sit on her books, but was incredibly smug for Nanny Armstrong had the day off and she’d therefore wrangled the day-maid into letting her wear her emerald Christmas dress to dinner. It was incredibly flashy, and where ever electric light touched a plastic bead a little rainbow occurred so that Sybbie was practically a bulb herself. Mary was much more demure in a simple red dress; Henry and Tom kept the bottom line in white tie. 

It would have been easy to eat the delicious cold chicken going around the table, really it would… but Thomas was serving the family that night with Andy and damnit if he didn’t look as beautiful as ever. Tom found himself enraptured by the simple things- the way that Thomas held a serving tray or poured wine. The way he bent low to let Sybbie whisper in his ear or helped the Dowager to her chair. She watched Thomas intensely perhaps judging his qualities without Robert there to block her. Tom could tell she was pleased- and why shouldn’t she see? Thomas was the perfect butler. The perfect servant. But he was more than a servant to Tom, more by a long shot. He was a professional- he courted the family like an entertainer more than some hierarchal slave. 

Tom’s breath quickened on instinct as Thomas came around the table. He was only doing his part, only playing the game- but god how Tom wanted to turn about in his chair and beg Thomas for another chance. Thomas bent low, offering Tom more wine from a crystal decanter. As he poured, Tom could hear Thomas’ rhythmic breathing in his ear. 

It was his own tiny lullaby. Back and forth four times. 

“Is something wrong, Tom?” Mary cut across his reverie and he came too, starting. Thomas move on to pour Mary’s glass. She accepted it without pause. “You seem gloomy.” 

“I have a lot on my mind.” It was a weak excuse for what he really wanted to say. 

“Are you going to France too?” Sybbie asked from across the table. Tom offered her a weak smile. 

“No, M’darlin.” Tom murmured, “And if I were, I’d be taking you with me.” 

“Imagine us all in the streets of Paris.” Mary clucked her tongue, “Even as we speak Edith’s on honeymoon in Greece.” 

“Grannie Violet?” Sybbie spoke up, “When you went on honeymoon where did you go?” 

“Oh I went to Paris, of course.” The Dowager said, “That was the fashion then, dear.” 

“When I marry I want to go to Japan.” Sybbie said. Everyone but Tom got a good titter out of that. He imagined her marrying in a beautiful white gown, as gorgeous as any snowflake to fall from the sky. There would be no one sitting by his side though. 

“Oh, goodness- what a travel.” The Dowager tutted as she cut her cold chicken, “I imagine you’ll be aged a year before you even get there.” 

“Japan, what a place to go.” Mary said, “Why Japan, darling?” 

“So I can wear a kimono.” Sybbie said, “I saw it in a book. It was beautiful.” 

“Yes well, fashion is on the rise.” The Dowager said in her usual dry way. 

But Tom’s attention was drifting again. Thomas and Andy were both back at the serving station, preparing the next course. Amazing how they could lift, carry, and set massive silver trays without making a single sound. Thomas was whispering something in Andy’s ear. He wondered what- 

“Goodness,” Mary cut in again, “You’re making quite a study of Barrow.” 

Thomas froze, his back stiffening slightly. He turned slightly, catching Tom’s eye over his shoulder. The fear Tom found there made him sick to his stomach and he dropped his gaze to his lap. He suddenly no longer had an appetite and wished to go to bed. 

“I’m sorry.” Tom said aloud, “I… didn’t mean to stare.” 

Thomas said nothing, and how could he? He was an entertainer in this room not a contributor. 

“Are you certain nothing’s wrong, Tom?” Mary asked, sounding unsure. “You’ve been awfully quiet tonight.” 

“… I don’t feel well.” Tom admitted. He rose up from his chair and Henry followed suit as tradition required but Tom waved him off and he sat back down again. Everyone looked remiss, even Sybbie. “I think I’ll turn in early tonight.” Tom said, “Goodnight.” 

“Do you require a doctor?” The Dowager asked, unsure. After Robert spewing blood like a French fountain, Tom couldn’t blame her. 

“No.” Tom assured her. “No… Just rest.” 

 

He went upstairs, stomach untroubled despite him having denied dinner. Like a love sick fool he collapsed fully dressed onto his bed, taking out Thomas’ risqué picture from underneath his pillow to observe it once again. No wonder Thomas was holding his sheet up; he was terrified of Tom. Unnerved, Tom put the picture to his chest and closed his eyes wondering if he could just sleep like this. If tomorrow he could simply sink into his covers and stay here the whole day claiming illness. 

He certainly felt ill in the head. 

A knock on the door gave him a start; Tom had no time to hide his picture and so he instead slipped it inside his vest as quickly as he could while Henry opened the door. He gave Tom a small smile, a cup of tea in hand. 

“I thought I might bring this up.” Henry offered, setting the teacup down on Tom’s bedside table. “Are you alright?” 

“… I’m fine.” Tom admitted, sitting up in bed and swinging his legs over the side. Henry leaned against the door frame, listening intently. “Just tired.” 

“You’ve been melancholy all night.” Henry said. “If something’s bothering you, Mary and I want to help. Surely you must know that.” 

“I do.” Tom said; Mary and Henry were dear friends to him, “But I’m afraid this isn’t a mess I can confide about.” It wasn’t like he could just declare _“I kissed Thomas and he thinks I’m atrocious”_

Henry gave him a tight lipped smile, unwilling to press him for more. Exhausted, Tom was relieved and relaxed back into his pillow. 

“Goodnight Tom.” Henry murmured, “And whatever’s troubling you, I hope it’s over soon.” 

But Tom doubted this was something that could be solved in a lifetime, and closed his eyes as Henry shut the door. 

~*~

Thomas wished that he could give comment on Tom’s melancholy approach to life now a days, but really what could be done? Tom was a healthy man, vibrant and full of life. Thomas was of the dead, for the dead, and unworthy of his light. One day Tom would understand. 

The day after turning in early from dinner, Tom had spent the following in bed, and hadn’t even gotten up for meals. Thomas had instead instructed a maid to take a tray to Tom’s rooms, but she’d come down with the food barely touched. Thomas felt horrifically guilty, and it spurned his own appetite to where Tom wasn’t the only one going to bed hungry. There was so much he wanted to say, so many apologies he wanted to make, but he doubted any of it could be done in a thousand lifetimes never the less one. 

Lost in thought by the fire, Thomas neglected his scalding tea cup to instead stare miserably at the flames. He was alone for the moment but could hear Daisy and Andy giggling in the kitchen. Anna was sure to come down any moment now with William… she often liked to feed him in the servant’s hall. 

Hearing footsteps, Thomas expected one of the two, but was surprised when it turned out to only be Moseley who looked incredibly glum for a man that had just gotten engaged. Then again his fiancé was in France for a month… Maybe Thomas could be understanding. Moseley often came up to the house, just to sit and talk with Baxter. But now that Baxter was gone, Moseley just seemed to want to sit and think. He perched himself upon his old chair, just like he’d done as a footman, and folded his hands upon the table before him. 

Thomas watched him for a moment, and considered how this man had ridden out the tides of change in his own life. He’d gone from being butler, to valet, to gravel packer, to footman… to teacher. What an odd world they lived in, and still through it all Moseley hadn’t felt the need to hack at his own skin like a Christmas ham. Thomas supposed he was made of stronger stuff, and in that moment he envied him. 

“… How are you holding up?” Thomas spoke up. Moseley started, looking around at Thomas in his rocking chair. He seemed amazed that Thomas wanted to speak with him, but immediately masked his shock with an expression of benign disinterest. 

“Fine. Fine.” Moseley looked away, hands still folded before him. 

“Are you missing her?” Thomas asked. Moseley did not look at him as he spoke. 

“Does it surprise you?” Moseley asked. Thomas knew Moseley was trying to bait him. 

“She’s my best friend.” Thomas admitted. Moseley was still stiff with his back turned, “I would have died without her love and guidance this past summer. But I have you to thank, Mr. Moseley.” 

Wary, Moseley turned back around in his chair. He narrowed his eyes at Thomas. “Why?” 

“… You love her.” Thomas stated, Moseley’s eyes never left his own, judging to see where the threat was, “And she deserve everything. So I thank you for that, Mr. Moseley. Truly, I do.” 

Moseley shook his head, dumbfounded. It seemed he wouldn’t have guessed for Thomas to say such a thing in a million years. 

“You’re a funny man, Mr. Barrow.” Moseley muttered. Thomas doubted that was a compliment, “Every time I think I know you, you shift.” 

“I apologize, Mr. Moseley.” Thomas said. Moseley didn’t seem sure whether to believe him or not, “I don’t know who I am… and that makes me very angry sometimes.” 

“That’s the journey of life, Mr. Barrow.” Moseley stated, a wise man to the bone. “We aren’t born knowing who we are.” 

“How true.” 

Though that small conversation had gone without spite or malice, Moseley did not seem eager to continue talking to Thomas. Thomas did not blame him; Moseley and Bates were quite chummy and neither of them were fond of speaking to him. The servant’s hall began to fill up as Lady Mary let Anna off for the night and she returned downstairs to bottle feed William in the rocking chair across from Thomas. They were then joined by Andy and Daisy, who bore a tray of tea for everyone and even biscuits despite the late hour. Soon there was talk on the air about weddings and love in general as Moseley was besieged with good will from all sides and William gurgled around his bottle. 

Thomas watched him, noticing how the fire made his dark little eyes light up with sparks. 

“We’ll be having the wedding relatively soon.” Moseley said, “Sometime in May we think. Neither of us wants a large ceremony.” 

“I’m so happy for you Mr. Moseley.” Anna sighed, rocking William back and forth as he continued to feed. “You deserve such good things.” 

Moseley turned in his chair to smile gently at Anna, “Thank you, Anna. How is little William?” 

“Oh!” Anna tittered gayly, “We’re just fine aren’t we?” William gurgled as she patted his swollen stomach, “Such a good boy.” She kissed the tip of her finger, and then touched his button nose. William grinned around his rubber nipple. “Poor Mr. Bates, I can’t imagine how he’s fairing in France.” 

“I should hope he’s at least enjoying himself.” Moseley always tried for optimism, “Paris is a city of history and art!” 

“It’s so strange.” Daisy piped up as she poured Andy a cup of tea, “I ought to be envious but I’m glad I’m here.” 

“Why’s that then?” Andy asked. 

“Because I’m with you.” Daisy replied. Andy flushed, grinning. His cheeks were burning bright pink even in the firelight. 

“Go on, don’t be so soft.” Andy said, clearly chuffed. Even Anna got a good chuckle out of it. Thomas was the only one without humor, however. It was difficult to smile when he felt so horribly miserable. Not wanting to press his bad mood on his company, Thomas rose up and made to leave. Yet even as he headed for the door, Moseley called out to him which was odd because Moseley never really noticed him before. 

“Going for a walk?” Moseley asked. 

“I thought I might get some air.” Thomas said, without turning around. He wondered if his voice sounded as hollow as he felt. A corpse walking. A dead man’s lover. 

“Mind you take a coat.” Anna urged. But there was no point in taking a coat; Thomas was already frozen cold on the inside. It was like when Edward had held him in that icy bath he’d somehow infused Thomas with the freezing temperature. His kisses, which had once soothed Thomas, now only made Thomas shudder. 

He wanted heat. Warmth. Love. 

Stepping outside into the back area, Thomas noted a fresh blanket of snow was covering the ground, so that it was difficult to discern different objects around the yard. The work bench seemed to be made of marble- or maybe just draped in a fine table clothe. Thomas stumbled to it and brushed snow aside. But sitting didn’t seem right- not when everything was so still and perfect. Instead he traced symbols in the snow atop the work bench. 

It was so still… like he was walking in a dream instead of reality.   
He was so captivated by the beauty of it all, that he almost didn’t register the back door opening. 

He heard the door close, heard it latch, heard footsteps crunch in the snow. 

“Are you thinking?” tom’s soft voice was almost part of the dream. If only it were a good dream now. 

“I don’t want to think.” Thomas whispered, “I want to be wrapped up. To forget I even exist.” 

“Thomas, please.” Tom sounded pained. Thomas felt Tom’s warm hand upon his shoulder- a solid and steady weight. “I beg of you just… let me in. I only want to be near you. I know I’m unworthy-“ 

“Just stop.” Thomas ground out. Tom, unworthy of him? What nonsense. Tom was handsome, heroic, witty, and loving— he was a dream in most men’s respects. Thomas was the one who was unworthy of him, even if Tom didn’t know it. 

His scarred wrists seemed to burn like they were on fire. Maybe they were. 

“But I can’t stop.” Tom put his other hand on Thomas’ other shoulder, framing him in warmth, “I can’t stop thinking about you- you consume me- night and day-“ 

Thomas pinched his eyes shut and brought his hands to his face. Consume him? He consumed Tom? No… Tom was consumed by the man he _thought_ Thomas was. Nothing more. Nothing more… 

“I’m so sorry if I’m upsetting you, but-“ 

“Upsetting me?!” Thomas whirled and found himself in Tom’s arms. Tom looked as dead as Thomas felt, and here was the proof that he could not be around good men. Normal men. He would taint them and turn them cold. “You think you are upsetting me? Look at yourself Tom. Look at yourself in the mirror- you look ill-!” 

“Thomas,” Tom said his name with bleak prayer, “I have deep- deep feelings for you-“ He whispered. 

“Oh for god’s sake.” Thomas desperately tried to save him, “You’re not even attracted to men, Tom! You don’t love me, you read a book on numerology and you got obsessed with a mystery- a ghost’s puzzle. You’re confused, not in love! How could you ever love someone like me, ask yourself that? Ask yourself and what answer do you find but madness?” 

Tom gaped, unable to speak. 

“Thomas…” Tom reached up, his fiery hands touching his frozen cheeks again; this time Thomas turned away, unwilling to be sparked by life. Let him die. Let him remain in the unchanged cold. “Just listen to me…” He brought an arm tight around Thomas’ chest, pulling him back in so that they were pressed back to front. Resisting was futile. Thomas was too weak, too cold. “You are beautiful. You are perfect. You-“ Tom breathed hot and heavy into his ear, like he was trying to breath life back into Thomas broken lungs, “How can you not see your own worth?” 

“What worth do I have?” Thomas demanded, “I am a toy in this game, I am a cadaver-“ 

“There’s a pulse in your chest.” Tom pressed his hand flat over Thomas’ heart where it pounded away, “Edward might be dead but you are alive! Don’t let him drag you into death, Thomas! Don’t let him make you think that you belong with the dead—“ 

It was too close to home. To painful to endure. Thomas wrenched himself away from Tom staggering several paces in the snow to almost fall to his knees. Gasping for breath, Thomas slowly rose up to glare at Tom full in the face. Tom seemed frightened now, and he ought to be. He had tempted the beast within him; the devil himself. 

“You… are a goody two shoes who thinks he can save everyone.” Thomas sniffed, gritting his teeth painfully tight, “You think you can help me. You think you can set me free… just like my father and mother thought they could change me into the son they wanted. But they couldn’t and neither can you… and when you realize that you won’t stay. You’ll destroy me. Or you’ll try.” Thomas whispered. 

Tom shook his head, shell shocked.   
Thomas pointed an accusatory finger at him. 

“I have outlasted Carson’s cruelty, Robert Crawley’s ignorance, Bates’ saintly martyrdom… and I’ll outlast your good will too, Tom Branson.” Thomas’ voice shuddered with self loathing. Tom looked almost ready to cry. “You’re like William and Daisy… Anna… Moseley… all the other goody two-shoes that ruined my life. Because I’m not what they wanted-!” 

“No one ruined your life! Those are good people back there, and they care about you!” Tom cried out, his loud voice momentarily stunning Thomas into silence, “You’re the one who brought yourself so low, Thomas, not them! They never did anything to you! Carson has shown you incredible kindness by letting you back onto the staff after you went and stole all that wine and that snuffbox! Robert has defended you endlessly, even to the Yorkshire Police!” Tom’s voice echoed against the stone and the snow. Thomas suddenly felt numb again, “How could you could you possible call him ignorant? What because he wanted to choose his best friend over you as position for valet? Dear god, Thomas- that post didn’t have your name written on it! And Bates…” Tom gestured a sad hand out between them, “Honestly that man never did anything to you… and you kicked him around like stray dog till he bit you back. So don’t blame the others for your limping. No one ever hated you for being different- for being a homosexual-“ Thomas jumped at Branson’s loud words. Did he realize the risk he put Thomas in by stating it so obviously? What if the wrong person heard and went to the police this very night? Frightened, Thomas glanced over his shoulder but found no one at the area gate. He looked back at Tom to find him enraged. “They hated you because you were a back-stabbing, conniving, cruel, arrogant, and merciless prick!” 

“SHUT UP!” Thomas cried out. Tom fell silent at once. 

He couldn’t bear to hear the truth. It made his scars burn, “…Just shut up.” He whispered. “You think you love me and you say things to me like that?” His voice cracked with emotion. 

Tom looked away, burned by shame. 

Thomas’ throat clenched horribly tight. He knew he was going to cry, and damned himself for his weakness as he ran for the door. He knocked Tom aside to get back in the house, not caring if Tom fell or staggered. 

“Just stay away from me!” Thomas blurted out, grabbing the door handle and slamming it shut. He locked Tom outside, uncaring how he got back him. Let him walk around to the front for all Thomas cared. 

 

It was like a nightmare that he couldn’t escape from. He was on the verge of spiraling, and where was Baxter to save him now? Far off in France— there’s where! Thomas stumbled up the stairs to the attics, heedless to the way Anna hesitantly called after him. He ran upstairs to barricade himself in his room, jamming his desk chair beneath the doorknob to create a poor man’s lock. 

 

_“You’re the one who brought yourself so low!”_

Thomas staggered left and then right- almost falling over as he collided into his bureau. He knocked several items off the top; they clunked and scattered as they hit the floor. 

_“Carson has shown you incredible kindness by letting you back onto the staff after you went and stole all that wine and that snuffbox!”_

But Thomas could remember Carson breathing fire down his neck, rage in his eyes and a vein throbbing in his temple as he declared that Thomas ought to be horsewhipped. 

Thomas fell backwards, buckling when his knees hit the bed. He collapsed onto the stiff mattress, pillows nearly bouncing onto the floor as he groaned and clutched his head. Despite his Beacham’s from earlier it still felt like it was about to split. The marbles were rattling violently in his brain. 

_“Robert has defended you endlessly, even to the Yorkshire Police!”_

But Lord Grantham had almost looked at him dead in the eye, inches away from death, and feigned ignorance. Had been unable to see the pain screaming in Thomas’ eyes. 

_“you kicked him around like stray dog till he bit you back.”_   
Thomas shuddered, about to vomit. 

_“No one ever hated you for being different- for being a homosexual”_

And then, like lightening, an ugly horrific memory from his past resurfaced to haunt him. His father over him, clutching him at the collar, slapping him hard in the face back and forth till blood had poured from his mouth and nose like a faucet. 

_“No da!” Thomas had howled, fourteen and petrified, “No!”_

_“You’re not my son!” His father had hit him with every word he spoke, “You’re not my son!”_

Thomas rolled, unable to keep it in, and vomited on the floor. It hit him like a wave once, twice- 

_“They hated you because you were a back-stabbing, conniving, cruel, arrogant, and merciless prick!”_

Three times. 

 

Thomas spent the rest of that night shivering in the cold. 

 

The next morning he woke up with a splitting headache, groaning in exhaustion. Despite having fallen in and out of sleep, he knew instinctively that he’d not rested sufficiently for the day ahead and spent half of it blundering through normal tasks. He nearly dropped a bottle of wine he was to decant for dinner and spent the entire day with an odd burning sensation in his chest like his stomach acid had crept into his throat the night before. He kept burping, tasting an ugly vomit lacing upon his tongue. He brushed his teeth twice before dinner but it did no good. He almost wanted to throw up again and get it over with. 

Tonight, the Dowager would not be coming for dinner. Instead they were giving host to Lady Merton (sans Lord Merton who was apparently still too ashamed to come to the abbey). As Thomas prepared the dining room with Andy he kept having to stop to take deep calming breathes. He wanted to go back to bed, to beg Andy to serve dinner alone… but that would never do. He was butler now. He couldn’t just slink away. 

He could only pray Tom hid upstairs in his room again and didn’t come down to supper. 

But when had fate ever been kind to him? 

Andy managed to serve pre-dinner cocktails alone, giving Thomas the time he needed gather his strength for one final push. When the family entered the dining room, however, all Thomas’ strength fled at the sight of Tom’s face. 

He was white. 

Thomas held out the chair for Lady Merton so that she could sit down, and began his rounds with the wine. As he slowly came around the table to where Tom sat, Thomas felt like he might be about to vomit again. The tip of his decanter clinked nervously against the lip of Tom’s wine glass. The sound was magnified in the room, as loud as Carson’s dinner gong. 

Andy took over serving the preliminary rounds of courses. They were only eating eight dishes tonight— hardly a grand dinner. The others chatted, completely unaware of the horrible tension escalating in the room. To distract himself, Thomas helped Andy to compile the main course (a left over of the cold chicken from the night before now mixed with a delicious pie of hearty vegetables and pastry). As Thomas served the course, offering a small hand made pie to each guest, Lady Merton struck up conversation with Tom who’d so far been silent. 

“Goodness.” She mused, “You look horribly glum.” 

“He’s tight lipped.” Lady Mary added. 

“I can’t get a word out of him.” Mr. Talbot said, “That’s for sure.” 

Now the entire dinner party turned to Tom, waiting to hear what he had to say. But Thomas had had his fill of Tom’s words and kept his back to the party as he slowly prepared the next serving… cold winter onions and asparagus. 

One piece, then two. One piece then two. The clink of his cutlery was horribly loud as Tom prepared to speak. 

“… I did something I regret.” Tom finally said. 

Did he regret it? Not so much as Thomas. His words had sent him into a horrific spiral even if he didn’t know it. 

Andy had come up alongside him, ready to accept the next course. Thomas passed him the serving tray, keeping his back on the company. 

“I said something I shouldn’t have to someone I care… deeply… about. And I … I don’t know how to rectify the situation.” 

He ought to be preparing the next course… a cold mango jam peppered with slightest salsa. Instead he was standing stock still, aware of Tom’s eyes on the back of his head. 

“What did you say that was so black?” Mary asked, curious. 

“Surely if it was in a fit of emotion, they might be more understanding-“ Lady Merton put in. 

But what fit of fucking emotion- 

“But that’s just it.” Tom protested, “They’re already beleaguered enough as it is. I only wanted them to know how much I cared- how much I wanted to help them-“ Tom lost his voice for a moment. 

He couldn’t help Thomas. No one could.   
Thomas still hadn’t prepared the next course. Andy was making his way back around the table with empty dishes from the main meal. 

“I pushed them to much and I ended up doing more damage then good.” Tom admitted, shame evident in his voice. “ I worried for them so last night, I couldn’t sleep I was sick with it.” 

“Well in Lord Merton’s experience, when it comes to a fickle woman time is the best answer-“ 

“You’re hardly fickle.” Mary pointed out. 

“Oh I wasn’t talking about me.” Lady Merton tittered, “I was speaking about the Gray’s mother. She once didn’t speak to Lord Merton for five months. He apparently had quite a nice time of it.” 

While a titter went up around the table, Tom interjected almost at once. He seemed infuriated by the idea of not speaking to Thomas. 

“I couldn’t do that.” Tom snapped, perhaps with more steel than he meant to, “Going five months— my god five hours without speaking to them? I couldn’t do that.” 

“Goodness!” Mr. Talbot cut in, “Is it love?” 

There was a moment’s pause. Andy had reached Thomas’ side only to find that the next dish was not prepared. He stared at Thomas, curious, slowly setting down the emptied plates onto the far side of the serving station. 

He came to stand by Thomas’ side and waited silently for him to dish out the cups of frozen mango jam. As if hoping to spur Thomas into action, Andy gently began to slide the silver dishes meant for holding the jam to the front of Thomas’ line up. Thomas still did not make to fill them. 

“It’s not table talk.” Tom said. 

“Now I’m really interested.” Lady Mary piped in. “tell me where did you meet this murky maiden? New Years Eve?” 

“… I’ve known them for a long time, actually.” Tom admitted.   
A very long time indeed. 

“A slow burn,” Lady Merton declared, “How romantic.” 

“Romantic till you start saying things like ‘no one ruined your life but you” Tom said bitterly under his breath. Unfortunately everyone else heard it. 

“Aha…” Mr. Talbot said, “So this is what set her off?” 

“It certainly lead up to it… but I shouldn’t have said any of it.” Tom’s self loathing was clear by this point. 

“…Mr. Barrow.” Andy whispered softly under his breath.   
Snapping out of his daze, Thomas cursed silently and immediately began to spoon out frozen jam. He moved at twice the speed as usual to make up for lost time, his hands shaking slightly as he went so that he nearly dropped the silver serving spoon. 

“But I must enquire, for you are a dear friend of mine.” Lady Merton cut in, “Is it true? What you said?” 

“…No, not entirely.” Tom was jumbling his words, confused. “But- I admit there is an ugly grain of truth in it.” 

Thomas handed out each dish to Andy till his serving tray was full again. Off Andy went, quickly ferrying around frozen jam to everyone so that Thomas could hastily start preparing the next course of sliced cheeses. Yet even as he moved his slices to their little end plates, Lady Merton’s voice brought his movements to a stand still. 

“We each have control over our own destiny.” Lady Merton reminded him, “Our situations do not make us who we are. We make our situations. If your lady friend cannot see that then perhaps they are not worthy of you. You’re a brave man, Tom. You shouldn’t be saddled with a coward.” 

He could stand no more of it.   
He left. 

Thomas walked silently around the edge of the dining room, coming to the door to the hall and opening it with minimal fuss. He did not dare look behind him to see the state of the room as he left. The silence was more than confirmation to know that everyone was aware of his absence. 

Out in the dark and quiet of the hall, Thomas staggered to the side and found himself crumpled against a side table where only a tall pot of lilac roses and a standing clock waited. Sagging against the wood, Thomas desperately tried to regain his breath. He thought he might vomit at any moment again and clapped a hand over his mouth to desperately keep the acid in.

_Coward_ , the marbles hissed in his skull. _Coward, coward, coward_. 

The door to the dining hall opened.   
Thomas half expected Tom to come walking out, but instead it was only Andy who scooted quickly down the hall and reached out to grab Thomas gently by the upper arm. 

“Mr. Barrow-“ Andy begged, clearly frightened by what he saw, “Mr. Barrow are you alright?” 

“Leave me be.” Thomas begged him off. 

“But the dinner-“ 

“Just give me a moment, for pities sake!” Thomas seethed out through clenched teeth, his expression wild and desperate. Andy backed off at once, nervous. 

He left Thomas in the hallway, and in that momentary pause Thomas drew several breathes. 

Lady Merton did not know him.   
She did not know his situation.   
She knew only what her life had shown her and her life had been incredibly kind. 

Steeled by this knowledge Thomas returned to the dining room.   
He did not pay attention to the conversation after that. 

 

Yet as dinner was brought to a close and Thomas ferried down the dishes to the kitchens, he could not help but hear the word ‘Coward’ bounce over and over again in his head. It followed him as he put back up the silver and watched Lady Merton to her motorcar. It followed him as he locked the front doors for the night and watched Anna head up the stairs to undress Lady Mary. It followed him as Andy headed downstairs for the night bearing the final tray of empty brandy glasses so that Gertie could wash up. To keep from having to face Andy who’d witnessed his shame, Thomas diverted himself to the boot room and stayed there to do whatever small task he could find. Lord Grantham was gone but some of Mr. Talbot’s motor boots could do with a polish. He doubted that Mr. Talbot would care either way, but it gave Thomas a job to do and kept him occupied until he heard the sound of light footsteps approaching the boot room door. 

It opened to reveal Anna who came in holding a pair of Lady Mary’s riding shoes. It seemed Mr. Talbot wasn’t the only one out and about on the country. Anna gave him a small smile as she shut the boot room door and sat down next to him at the work station. She began to polish, dampening a cloth and scrubbing hard at her boot. Thomas wondered what time it was. Had he even remembered to lock the back door? 

“Lady Mary said you were in an odd mood over dinner.” Anna spoke up, “You look rather pale; are you feeling alright?” 

Was he feeling alright? No he absolutely was not feeling alright. He was feeling like utter shite as of this moment in time not that he could voice such a thing without being deemed selfish or cruel. He’d already been called a coward tonight; he didn’t want to rack up more points as far as he was concerned. 

“… I’m a bastard.” Thomas sat down his boot, unable to hide with the guise of complacency any longer. His tone was so peculiar that it paused Anna’s own polishing. She slowly sat down her boot, watching him. 

“I’ve ruined my life.” Thomas proclaimed before his ‘priest’, “And I’m a coward because I don’t want to face it, and I’m unworthy of anything good.” 

The pain that came from saying the words aloud humiliated him more than Anna could ever know. Thomas sat down his boot altogether and brought a trembling hand to cover his face. He suddenly realized he was dripping in a cold sweat. 

Anna reached up and gently patted his opposite forearm, which still lay upon the table. 

“What’s got you so glum, eh?” Anna asked, not unkindly, “Did someone say something to you?” 

Thomas could not keep the pain, the guilt to himself, “Tom said that I was the one who brought myself so low. That no one ever hated me for being different- that they hated me for being a prick-“ 

“Well, there is some truth to it.” Anna admitted, though she still was not speaking in cruel tones. “I won’t deny it. You were very rude and you hurt people who never wanted to do you a wrong.” Her hand smoothed from his arm all the way up to his shoulder and his back. There she patted him in the way a sister might. “But you’ve apologized to Mr. Bates, and others… and you’ve done well for yourself in the past year. You’ve had a rough start, but we’ve forgiven you.” At this, though, Anna dropped her hand to grin at him as she picked back up her boot. 

“Well, I have at least.” Anna declared, sounding oddly smug, “I’m not so sure about Mrs. Patmore. She’s a hard sell-“ 

Thomas gritted his teeth tight, picking back up his own boot. Yet as Thomas tried to wipe the grime away from Mr. Talbot’s boot he could not help but say, “I deserve it. I deserve death.” 

“You’ve had a low moment, that’s all.” Anna cut across, unwilling to let him say more, “Pull yourself together, and clean your boot.” 

He looked at Anna, and noted her grim smile. How even when she was happy she was somehow in pain. 

_“You fowl witch!”_ he remembered her crying out to O’Brien when they’d tried to frame Bates for the missing snuff box and wine. 

Thomas blanched, frightened, and dropped his boot.   
He’d apologized to others but not to Anna. 

And suddenly, he desperately wanted to. 

“… I’m sorry Anna.” He said bleakly. She stared at him, taken aback by the quivering emotional tone of his voice. He sounded like a lost child as he stared at her petrified of his own sins. “I’m so sorry.” 

Anna set down her boot.   
For the first time in living memory, she looked truly afraid of him.   
For him. 

He cupped his mouth in his hands, realizing the full extent of his crimes against her, against this kind and lovely woman who’d only wanted to do good for her house, her home, and her husband. 

“Anna, I’m so sorry-“ The tears that spilled down his cheeks were the first ones he’d ever wept in shame; they were incredibly hot and cleansing upon freezing skin, “I’m so sorry, I never wanted to hurt you. I’m so sorry-!” He reached out to grab her shoulders. Anna jumped on instinct. 

Thomas broke down, and wept into her shoulder and breast. For a moment Anna was completely still, absolutely lost with how to reply. 

Then, with instincts only a new mother could possess, she wrapped her arms around Thomas and let him stain her collar with tears. 

She let her hands drift to his hair, the tips of which were slowly losing their pomade hold. She grasped at the back of his head as if she feared he might slip away and sink beneath her- as if they were standing on a marsh and not solid wood. 

“It’s alright, Thomas.” She murmured in his ear even as she wept. “I don’t understand why you wanted to hurt me… but it’s alright.” 

“Because.” Thomas whimpered into her neck, the final and ugliest of his truths passing his lips, “I wanted… to be… you.” 

Anna said nothing, wrapping her arms tighter around him still. 

“I want to be good.” Thomas “But I don’t know how.” And the admission broke him. His tears became silent, his shaking gaining in strength till he was almost unsettled in Anna’s arms. 

She bent her head close to his ear, whispering softly so that only he could hear. 

“But don’t you see?” Anna whispered, “You are good.” 

“But… But…” Thomas whispered, afraid. 

“Two bad men have hurt me in my life.” Anna whispered, “And if you were bad, I’d know. And I wouldn’t forgive you.” 

 

And it consoled him at last. 

 

He slept much better that night, and despite still having an acidic taste in his mouth, Thomas managed to get several hours sleep before being woken up by his alarm clock. Yet as he rose and dressed, intent to make the most out of his day whatever may come of it, how was he to know that just two floors below him Tom had once again barely managed to sleep an hour at most and was in a horrendous state of anxiety. 

It was certainly made clear at breakfast, and Thomas could not help but do a double take as Tom appeared in the dining hall to join Lady Mary and Mr. Talbot who were already having their eggs and bacon. He looked ready to keel over, and all but toppled into his chair as he sat down. 

Thomas slowly walked up to Tom’s side and carefully poured him a cup of hot fresh coffee.   
It was clear he was going to need it. 

“Oh for heaven’s sake Tom!” Lady Mary beseeched, “Look at the state of you. You have to talk to her!” 

“They wouldn’t listen to me.” Tom mumbled. He looked down at his coffee which Thomas had just poured, then looked away. It was as if the coffee had scorned him. 

“I’m certain she would if she knew how upset you were!” Mr. Talbot corrected him. 

Just behind Tom, Thomas could not help but stare apprehensively at the back of Tom’s head. 

Part of him had woken up that morning unsure of how he felt about Tom, particularly after Lady Merton’s scathing comments the night before. Yet as he stared at Tom now, slumped and pale in his hair, Thomas suddenly wanted to comfort him. 

To hold him and tell him that it was okay. That truly he did understand. That it had been a mistake, but an honest one, and to be fair Tom hadn’t lied… he’d just said some things Thomas would rather not hear. 

“If I could… I would say how sorry I was.” Tom whispered. Andy was coming around with bacon and eggs, and Thomas stepped back to allow Andy to fill up Tom’s plate. He likewise put his coffee kettle back on its silver holding tray to pretend like he was doing something even as he listened intently to Tom’s every word. 

“That it came out wrong. That all I want is… to be near them. To care for them. To put their happiness first… to love them.” 

“Then surely you say that, and the fight is over.” Lady Mary urged, looking from Tom to her husband for support. “I know it would be with me!” 

“Are you so certain?” Mr. Talbot teased “When you go to war you could take it to court.” 

“I don’t go to court.” Lady Mary waggled her fine eyebrows, “I go abroad.” 

Tisk tisk. The humor of the the upper class. 

“Tell her today.” Lady Mary resumed her attack on Tom. “Call her. Ask to meet for lunch.” 

_I could meet for lunch-!_ Thomas thought hopefully. He could think of something- find some demanding task in the village- 

“No…” Tom mumbled bleakly, “They wouldn’t want to meet me. They’d want to run me over with a car.” 

_Oh for gods sake_. Thomas thought irritably. In an attempt to make Tom shut up he added some cream to Tom’s coffee. 

Tom liked cream in his coffee. Thomas knew this simply from being his butler. 

“…I’m going to work on the cars today.” Tom said. 

“But Tom!” Lady Mary said, taken aback. She looked over her shoulder at the wide open windows beyond which snow could be seen pouring down, “It’s freezing outside.” 

“It’s punishment for my bad behavior.” Tom shrugged. 

“I highly doubt she’ll appreciate it if you catch the flue.” Lady Mary chastised him. Spot on she was-! Absolutely correct. Now Thomas would be spend the entire day worried for Tom’s health and would get nothing done. Much obliged, Tommy boy! Much obliged. 

“You never know.” Tom muttered. 

He ate a slice of bacon, a spoonful or two of eggs, and then finally took a sip of coffee. He finished his cup, then set it aside to rise up. 

“Oh Tom-“ Lady Mary begged. Tom shook his head and left the room. Lady Mary wasn’t the only one to sigh as Tom closed the door. 

 

Sure enough as Thomas loaded up breakfast and ferried it back downstairs for Gertie to clean, he found himself looking out at each window he passed and wondering at the state of the garage. Was Tom freezing out there, or had he put on a coat? Was he intending to eat more than a spoonful of beans that day or was Thomas being overly hopeful? Should Thomas go out there and confront him now? 

No. He couldn’t do that. He was much too afraid of being caught… or being forced to look frankly at his feelings. 

Chided by his own internal monologue Thomas took his irritation out on the maids as he forced them to do a thorough round of cleaning in the main hall. It was decidedly the hardest room in the house, requiring all hands on deck as they dusted, mopped, swept, polished, and put in fresh bouquets of flowers. For the speed at which they moved, Thomas could have done all the damn work for them and had to resort to returning downstairs so as not to cuss out his day staff. He found Mrs. Patmore hard at work on lunch, and winced as he thought of Tom’s stomach which surely must be aching by now. He needed to eat and to keep warm. 

How could Thomas solve these problems without making himself obvious? 

He coughed to clear his throat, garnering Daisy’s attention at the stove. Mrs. Patmore was far too busy making sandwiches to take time for him. 

“Mr. Branson is out working on the cars in the garage… for whatever reason.” Thomas muttered irritably under his breath, “I wondered if you might make something warm for him to drink.” 

“ I have a soup broth that’ll warm his bones.” Mrs. Patmore looked up, gesturing for Daisy to get busy heating the mixture up. At once Daisy put a copper pot on the stove to fetch frozen broth from the refrigerator. 

“I’ll get Peter to take it out to him.” Thomas decided. That was the best idea; Peter was clueless. No one would think twice. Unsure of what else to do, Thomas fished out a wicker basket from beneath the kitchen island to find a thermos within. It could be used for soup, sure enough. 

“I can do that…” Daisy reminded him, her tone turning slightly cautious. 

“Just- pull something together for him to eat.” Thomas muttered, suddenly embarrassed and irritated at being called out by Daisy of all people. “He didn’t eat breakfast, make sure it’s hearty. Figure it out. I’m going to decant wine.” 

“But it’s eleven in the morning-!” Mrs. Patmore said, surprised at his early starting. Flustered, Thomas just hassled even faster for the kitchen door. 

He needed to seclude himself and fast. 

“Wine doesn’t decant itself, Mrs. Patmore!” Thomas snapped over his shoulder, the only excuse he could give. As he slammed Mr. Carson’s door behind him, Thomas locked it for good measure and hobbled over to his swivel chair. 

He sat there for a good hour before he even touched a wine bottle. 

The day past irritatingly slow and Thomas found himself looking for jobs to do as he heard Peter ferry out a basket to Tom in the garage. It came back empty so Thomas presumed all was well even when he honestly began to decant actual wine for dinner. 

Was it just Thomas’ imagination or was it starting to snow even harder? Was nature mocking his plight at this point? Oh— what if Tom had forgotten to wear warm socks. His feet would be blocks of ice by this point. 

“…Damn stubborn Irish mick.” Thomas muttered softly as he decanted his final bottle of wine for dinner. 

As the sun set, Thomas prayed that Tom would come inside and see sense. 

He went upstairs ferrying tray after tray, quite nervous of what he’d find waiting for him at the top. What if Tom had taken ill and caught the flue? What if Tom had run away and was now hiding somewhere in the groves of Yorkshire? What if Tom had seen sense and lost interest- God how could Thomas blame him at this point? But as Thomas drew back the curtain for pre-dinner cocktails, he found Tom alive and oddly well. Indeed, there seemed to be more color in his cheeks. He even managed to join in with Mr. Talbot on some conversation about cars in London. Apparently he and Tom wanted to set up a model shop in York. 

As the party drifted to the dining room proper, Thomas helped them to eat a six course meal of beef and finely sliced tomato. Mrs. Patmore had sprinkled it all with a ravenous seasoning and the small dinner party gobbled it up at once. As Tom ate, Thomas watched him carefully. He noted that Tom did not touch his wine all through the meal and instead drank water. He glanced up at Thomas when his glass became empty, but he needn’t bother. Thomas came around and refreshed his glass, bending low just as he might for Sybbie. 

Tom didn’t whisper in his ear. It was too dangerous. Too complicated.   
Yet as Thomas drew back, with Tom’s water glass re-filled, he noted that there was an incredible surge of color in Tom’s cheeks. He seemed almost… inspired. 

“Goodness.” Lady Mary said as she finished her final slice of tomato, “You seem healthy.” 

“I was well taken care of today.” Tom admitted softly, “I’m grateful, and I didn’t deserve it.” 

“A little something to warm you in the garage?” Lady Mary teased, cocking an eyebrow. 

“Indeed.” Tom said. He glanced up and caught Thomas’ eye…. so it seemed his soup broth had not gone un appreciated. Tom’s eyes, rimmed by the bruising of nights without sleep, were now growing round and hopeful again. It was like watching a corpse come back to life, and Thomas was fascinated even as Andy took up the dinner plates and made to spread out the next round of winter vegetables- a simple steamed cabbage with salt and pepper tonight. 

Tom almost forgot to eat, he was watching Thomas so carefully. 

“I … think I’m going to get a bit more work done on the car before I go to bed.” Tom mused aloud. 

“Tom.” Mr. Talbot urged, almost grumpy, “It’s freezing out there.” 

“…I’ll manage.” Tom supplied. 

Thomas licked his lips, turning away from the dinner table at long last as he prepared the next dish of shaved ice with a lemon syrup. 

He knew an invitation when he saw one. 

Dinner was finished soon after- it was only a six course meal after all- and after-drink brandies were given up in favor of an early turn in. Mr. Talbot and Lady Mary went up, taking Anna with them, and Thomas went back downstairs to oversee Gertie and Andy as they put up the dishes for the night. When everything was in its place and Andy was sufficiently distracted by Daisy and a card game, Thomas carefully walked to Mr. Carson’s office… his office… and fetched the key to the back door from its hook on the wall. He walked through the halls, not meeting anyone’s eye, and pulled a coat over his livery. No one enquired as to where he was going. Mrs. Patmore was occupied making the servant’s dinner, Anna was upstairs, and the day maids were gone. It was easy- almost laughably so- to slip through the back door and close it carefully on a snowy silent night. 

Thomas walked through the area yard, no longer feeling like a ghost but more like an owl as he moved through the dark to the very far edge of the cobblestone railing. Here, he rounded the corner and walked to the garage, pocketing the key to the back door as he went. There was a light on, gleaming warm and yellow in the grimy garage windows… it drew him in. 

Thomas finally entered the garage, and stopped to watch in silence. 

 

It was like a scene from the past. 

There sat Tom, wearing his jumper from his time as a chauffeur and mechanic, working on one of Mr. Talbot’s ‘project’ cars. Oil covered his hands, leaving tiny smudges on his cheek from where he might have scratched an itch on his face. With each breath he expelled, a hot puff of air could be seen in the frigid night. The warm beckoning light came from Tom’s oil lamp so that the car seemed to gleam like a golden chariot though it was hardly one of Talbot’s fancier steeds. 

Tom paused at the sound of snow crunching, and looked up to see Thomas standing at the garage door. 

He rose from his work bench, wiping oil from his hands with an equally filthy rag. Setting it aside, Tom walked around the car so that he and Thomas could stand before one another. Thomas looked down at his feet, suddenly cowed though he couldn’t say why. 

“It’s… like a picture from the past.” Thomas said, gesturing to Tom and the car he’d been working on. 

 

“Someone’s got to do it.” Tom mused. To be fair that ‘someone’ by all rights ought to be Henry Talbot but clearly Tom was considering this to be a type of penance. Thomas drew a breath as Tom straightened himself up to his full height, looking Thomas dead in the face. 

He’d never been greeted with such open courage before. It was astounding to witness after a lifetime of hiding. Thomas could not help but be enraptured. 

“I can’t keep it in any longer.” Tom said. Thomas nodded, waiting for Tom to go on. 

“I’m sorry.” Tom murmured, “For what I said. For what I implied. It was wrong of me.” 

“Was it?” Thomas wondered, “When it was true?” 

“Maybe.” Tom did not dwell on it as he carried forth, “But the truth can hurt just as badly as any other blade, and I’ve got a painful truth of my own to live with. That I’m not the man I thought I was. I’ve told myself a hundred times that things will never change on this front, but then I look at how the divides have dropped between the classes in just the past twenty years. Social norms are shifting. Things are changing, Thomas, even on our front-“ 

“They’re getting worse, Tom.” Thomas was sorrowful to admit it. Skirt lines might be rising, but religious demands were not, “Not better.” 

“Maybe it seems that way, but it won’t always be the same.” Tom urged, “A time will come when it won’t matter if two men love each other-“ 

Shocked by Tom’s outspokenness, Thomas reached up a hand to shush him. He looked over his shoulder, petrified of who might have heard. Tom, however, didn’t give a nit. He took Thomas’ hand from the air, holding it between his own. His fingers were shockingly warm for a man who’d been standing out in the cold, and they instantly thawed Thomas’ frozen digits. 

“No.” Tom shook his head, catching Thomas’ fearful gaze again, “I won’t shush. I’ll say it as loudly and proudly as I please-“ 

“And you’ll be killed for it.” Thomas begged, “And I couldn’t bear that…. so please. Shush.” 

“No.” Tom repeated again, his gaze slightly stern, “I will not shush. Not when I want to devote every moment of my waking day to your happiness.” 

Well shit. You could knock Thomas over with a feather. He blinked, baffled at Tom. No one in all of his years had ever said something so nice, so selfless. It moved him, made his heart skip a beat in his chest. 

“Oh Tom.” He whispered softly. 

Tom pursed his lips, looking down. Was it Thomas’ imagination or was the start of a blush starting to grow across his handsome cheeks. “Please don’t make fun of me.” Tom murmured, “It’s cost me all the courage I have to say these things to you.” 

Thomas swallowed, looking down at his feet. Tom was still holding his hand, but as Thomas refrained from giving an answer Tom hesitantly let go. Thomas suddenly felt even colder than before, staring at his hand hanging in mid air. 

“Right.” Tom whispered, utterly dejected and broken. He turned away, looking back at Talbot’s racing car. “I should have known. You’re too good for me.” 

“No.” Thomas cut across at once, for the concept was utter folly. 

“I’m ugly and foolish. You don’t want to be saddled with the likes of me when I’ve got a child-“ Tom carried on. But this sparked a tiny bubble of rage in Thomas’ chest. He exploded, desperate to reach Tom across the divide that was forming between them. 

“ What utter horseshite!” He cried out, “You’re incredibly handsome and you know it so stop degrading yourself… and if you’re foolish then… then we all are.” He paused, before adding with vigor: “I love your child!” He cried. Tom froze, unable to take another step away from Thomas. He looked over his shoulder, misery draining from his eyes as he saw the defiant truth in Thomas’ face. “I love her like she were my own. You know that.” 

Tom took a step back towards Thomas. Thomas suddenly found himself wishing he could fling himself into Tom’s arms, grab him and kiss him just like before in his dreams. He wondered if Tom had ever dreamed of him. If Tom had ever imagined himself kissing Thomas just for the sake of sakes… for the soul of courage and the warmth of the dawn, and all the other soppy things Tom made Thomas think about. 

“Then why?” Tom asked, “Why hide from me?” 

“Because…” Thomas swallowed, fingering his opposite wrists with frozen hands. The leather seemed to cut into his skin in that moment- into his very heart. “Tom… I’ll ill.” He glanced up to see Tom looked horrified. 

“I… I tried to kill myself.” Thomas bleated out, the final confession. The final barrier. “Last June. I’ve been trying to tell you all this time. That’s why I use the ouija-“ Tom’s horror was dropping to be replaced by dawning comprehension. He didn’t look judgmental in that moment. Not by a thousand miles, “I’m trying to talk to Edward because he held me when I was dead. I’m sick in the head, Tom. I’m no good for you. I’m no good for anyone. I’m damaged, I’m sullied. I’m spoiled. I’m shamed-“ 

But at this, Tom’s hands shot up. He grabbed Thomas by the cheeks, holding him lovingly in his warm grip. Thomas hitched a breath, sinking into Tom’s touch though they did not kiss. He reached up to feel Tom’s fingers upon his face. To sense how beautifully hot they were.

“What shame?” Tom whispered hotly, his breath cutting into the frost on Thomas’ face, “I do not accept for a minute that there’s shame involved in this. You’re not damaged or sullied… You’re not spoiled. You are perfect.” And he said the word with such harsh conviction that it was almost like a blade cutting at every net Thomas had made to stop himself from feeling happiness. “I know you tried to end your life. I’ve known since before Larry’s damn dinner.” He stroked Thomas’ face with his broad thumbs, “Why do you think I got so mad at that prick-“ 

“Oh don’t mention him now, or it’ll put me off.” Thomas whispered, attempting for a small joke. Tom smiled, his expression hesitantly falling to hope. 

“So…” Tom carried on, “So it isn’t… me?” 

“No.” Thomas said in a rush, determined that Tom should know, “If only that you’re too good for me-“ 

“I’m too good for you, you’re too good for me- what I want to know is who’s right enough for the pair of us.” Tom joked. Thomas could not help but chuckle a bit. Why was it that he always ended up laughing with Tom, even when he wanted to cry? 

“I love you.” Tom murmured, far too loud for societies liking, “And I’m not afraid to say it.” 

“But…” Thomas swallowed, a knot forming in his throat. It was too good to be true. Too wonderful to fit into his life. There had to be a catch. There had to be a ‘but’, “But you’re not like me-“ 

“Hey.” Tom cut him off, putting a gentle finger upon Thomas’ lips to shush him, “I can see the value in both sides of a green pitch, and Sybil Crawley was the only woman I’ve ever loved.” 

Thomas could feel tears forming in his eyes. For the first time, they were of joy. 

“I know the feeling.” He whispered. Had there ever been a woman alive or dead he might of loved, it would have been her. Her free spirit had cut his chains of bitter defiance. Tom dropped his finger from Thomas’ lips, staring at him as if he were a marvel- a work of art. Thomas stared back all the same, and in a move of bravery that shocked him Thomas reached up with his frozen fingers to gently stroke Tom’s cheeks. Every bit of him was hot. Every bit of him melted Thomas’ defenses. 

 

He felt like he was reaching across the divide that had kept him alienated from the rest of the human race. Like he was suddenly stepping among his brotherhood, rejoining the throng of man so that he no longer had to bear the storm alone. 

He did not deny the tears that trickled out of the corners of his eyes, the joy that swallowed his heart. When Tom leaned in to kiss him, Thomas did not put up a fight. He opened his mouth, and let Tom crash into him like a wave to the shore. 

Tom enclosed him in his arms, and Thomas was finally safe. 

They kissed with passion, with intense fever, their mouths open to one another so that their tongues, teeth, saliva could merge. Tom kissed like he spoke, like he acted— with courage and dominance. Thomas succumbed to it at once, willing to be submissive before Tom and no other even as Tom’s hands trailed up to cup the back of his head and slip down to scoop him in the small of his back. Unable to do much more than hold the fuck on and thank God for every moment, Thomas grabbed at Tom’s jumper, squeezing the fabric tight till it started to wrinkle beneath his iron fingers. 

His heart was pounding, he needed air… but he refused to part from Tom’s lips. He wanted to faint in the mans arms, to kiss him till he died- 

But Tom broke off and Thomas sagged against his chest, panting as his heart raced in his ears. 

For a moment Tom brushed his nose through Thomas’ bangs, smelling his pomade and the scent of his sweat. Then his nose began to slide down Thomas’ face, and Thomas was pleasantly surprised as Tom gently kissed him upon his cheeks and at the corner of his swollen mouth. He nipped at Thomas’ skin, forcing his face back up as he kissed him all over. 

Thomas swooned, eyes hooded with love as he glanced up at Tom’s face. He reached and gently cupped Tom’s cheeks in his hands, placing his own kisses upon Tom’s skin. He kissed his cheeks, his eyelids, his brow, the tip of his nose, and finally his mouth again. But this time when their lips met there was no insane hurry… only a gentle meeting of lovers as Tom allowed Thomas to take control of the kiss. 

He did not rush it. He savored it after so long in the darkness.   
Bathed in the light of the human experience, Thomas felt like a man reborn. 

When he drew back again to see Tom’s face, he found him grinning. Youthful. Loving. 

“Thank god I finally got to kiss you.” Tom whispered against Thomas’ lips, “I thought I was going t’explode.” 

Thomas laughed softly charmed, and threw his arms around Tom’s neck.   
Tom held his close, the pair of them warm even as the snow continued to fall down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. Review if you have any comments, questions, or concerns!


	13. Up So Close

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom Branson writes letters.  
> Mary Crawley meets Mary Malone.  
> Henry Talbot goes for a beer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter will feature several poem clippings, none of which are mine. They all belong to period accurate poets, both English and Irish; Tom Branson has a library at his command and far too much time on his hands. I'd like to thank all my readers for continuing to peruse this story. As a side note: While everyone enjoys good critique (in particular me) I would greatly appreciate it if comments were kept free of negativity. I want this story to continue to be a positive experience for everyone.

What a day, what a day. Had the world ever been so beautiful before? It was difficult to say. 

Thomas had come through the coal hole and back into the sunlight to bask in the warmth of love. It was impossible to keep a cheery smile off his face as he went about his tasks. He smiled as he ordered maids to clean the dining hall after breakfast. He smiled as he spoke with the master librarian about clearing and cleaning the library over the phone. He smiled as he helped Andy to bring up trays for lunch and he smiled as he decanted wine for dinner. 

Mrs. Patmore was decidedly disturbed but Thomas didn’t care. 

He was even humming to himself, god help him, and had so far gone through the tune of ‘Blue Danube’ twice as he moved through the downstairs getting status updates from maids and the lone hall boy Peter. The dining hall was clear and ready for dinner…. what stunning progress for one days worth of work! Clearly the whole world was coming together in his favor. 

As Thomas poked his head into the kitchen to check up on preparations for dinner, he found Daisy at the stove preparing a haunch of mutton for the main course. They’d be having a tubort with sauce homard for an hor’s d’oeuvres, a salad of green corn and cauliflower as a vegetable course, and a florentine pudding for desert with french ice. Mrs. Patmore was on the phone with the butcher in his office, getting in an order for next week’s meals. Gertie was scurrying about the pantry while it was unlocked, collecting jams and jars of beans. 

“Penny for your thoughts?” Daisy asked with a knowing smile, tilting her head to the side. 

“Mm?” Thomas cut off half-way through the tune of ‘Vision of Salome’, unable to keep from smiling, “Oh, no. They’re not worth half that much.” 

“Not with the way you’re smiling!” Daisy declared, her eyes twinkling with delight. “You’ve a secret to tell.” 

Thomas was suddenly transported to last night. To how after their first honest to god kiss Tom had sucked tenderly at the skin just beneath his left ear till it was raw red and sensitive to every touch. Tom had blown softly upon the red skin, giggling in Thomas’ ear when he’d jumped from the sensation. 

“Maybe.” Thomas grinned, “But I won’t be telling it to you.” 

“Give over!” 

Thomas shrugged, leaving the kitchen and heading down the hall. Daisy followed him, an odd thing to do when she ought to be focusing on dinner. But as she opened the door to the boot room it was obvious she had a bone to pick with him. Thomas cocked an eyebrow as Daisy shut the door behind them, effectively giving them some measure of privacy while they grinned at one another like idiots. 

“Don’t you have dinner to make?” Thomas teased. Daisy didn’t budge an inch, crossing her arms merrily over her chest. 

“You’re smiling-“ 

“Well spotted.” 

“Is it your sweet heart?” Daisy asked, in a tone that somehow seemed to suggest she’d already deduced the whole thing. It might have been easy before to tell her to bugger off and go about his merry way deprived but Thomas now knew what it felt like to be held by a man hotter than the sun… and somehow it melted his normal composure. 

“Yes.” Thomas kept his voice in check, careful not to speak too loud. Daisy’s eyes popped like she’d been told a secret to the English throne, her own voice dropping to a whisper as she took another step forward. 

“You changed your mind then?” Daisy asked. Thomas looked away, shifting uncomfortably upon his feet. Daisy didn’t seem to realize how rare she was. How few and far between open minded people were in 1925. It made him value her even more in that moment as he finally turned and softly whispered “Yes.” in reply. 

Daisy was beaming maniacally, “And now you can’t stop smiling-! So who is it?” 

Now she was pushing too far, “I can’t tell you,” Thomas chided her at once; she was slightly crestfallen, “I’d be in too much trouble.” 

“Don’t be like tha’-“ She grumbled, trying again for camaraderie as she nudged his arm with her dried tasting spoon. “Who is it? You can tell me-! At least give me a hint or something.” 

“It’s someone who makes me laugh. That’s all you’re getting.” Thomas grumbled, sweeping a hand aside. He turned to busy himself, picking up stray jars of half-empty shoe polish. They were in dire need of brown paste and he made a mental note to fetch some the next time he was in the village. 

“Well that’s good isn’t it?” Daisy sounded mighty pleased which made no sense as this adventure didn’t involve her at all, “Looks fade but laughs never do.” 

It was difficult to say why Thomas thought of Jimmy in that moment; of his bouncing golden curls and the way the light had shone in his baby blue eyes. If ever there had been a doll-face to ponder, it had been him… but that face hadn’t been enough to mask his insecurities and fears. Thomas had loved Jimmy for all of it, truly, but Jimmy had been straight… complicated… confused. 

Jimmy didn’t know how to love someone else… probably because no one had ever loved him first, and that made Thomas’ heart ache. 

But Thomas couldn’t help Jimmy. Jimmy had to help Jimmy, wherever he was. Thomas could only take care of himself- could only repair his life one damage and apology at a time… Tom had taught him that. 

“I suppose so.” Thomas mused softly, stacking little jars of black shoe polish like a tiny tower. 

Daisy fidgeted, squirming, only to burst out, “Oh won’t you at least give me something else to go on? Is he here in the village?” 

“Yes,” Thomas grumbled, “He’s here.” Honestly where did Daisy think he was finding his men? Liverpool? 

“Do I know him?” She begged. Thomas did not answer her, reaching into his breast pocket to pull out his dark blue handkerchief to clean off his fingers which were slightly dirtied by dried shoe polish. Thomas lack of answer seemed as good an answer as any to Daisy, who was almost bouncing upon the balls of her feet as Thomas caught her eye again. 

“I know who it is.” She declared with all the pomp of an Oxford graduate. Thomas grunted. 

“Y’can’t have.” He said. 

“I do!” She huffed. Thomas wondered who she thought it to be, and grinned lazily as he relaxed against the workstation behind him. 

“If you know who it is then out with it.” He teased, “If it is who you say it is I’ll confess” not likely, “And if it isn’t I’ll tell you so” And get a good laugh out of it. 

Daisy chewed a bit on her bottom lip, her eye twinkling maniacally as she said, “Joss Tufton.” 

“Gye-!” Thomas cried out, physically repulsed by the idea of that fat slovenly womanizer putting his hands— oh he was going to hurl. He was absolutely going to hurl. Gagging Thomas looked away to smack his hands upon the work counter. Daisy burst out laughing. 

“Only joking!” She assured him, “I know who it really is.” 

“Well then do tell me quick before I vomit.” Thomas spat, whipping back around, “And never put me and that man in the same sentence again.” 

Daisy smirked, picking at a spot on her apron. She looked far too smug for Thomas’ safety, glancing up at him to see if he was sweating yet. 

“… The other night-“ Daisy changed topics, leaving Thomas scrambling to make sense of the straws, “I went out to fetch firewood.” 

So? 

Thomas waited for Daisy to allude to more, to draw a bridge or a connection, but Daisy just kept on smirking. Her smile was turning positively evil for the first time in her… 

… In her… 

Thomas frowned, thinking about the location of the firewood pit. It was across the alley from the garage, separated but a wicker fence where wisteria grew in summer. 

But in winter the fence was bare and full of holes. 

Thomas paled, looking back up at Daisy to still find her smirking. Had she seen him the other night with Tom? Did she know everything? The sheer panic he felt at another person being in on his secret made him see stars and he almost considered announcing he was having a panic attack as he clenched to the work station. 

“… Daisy.” Thomas whispered her name in a plead, “Daisy, I beg of you. I beg of you if you have any mercy-“ 

“Oh, I’ll take it to me grave!” Daisy assured him, making an ‘x’ over her heart with her pointed finger. “I won’t tell a soul.” 

“Daisy, you don’t understand-“ She was a child, innocent and naive. She didn’t know what damage she could do him with just one word, “Daisy you can never breath a word or I’ll- I’ll be killed. He’ll be killed. Or put in a prison- or an asylum-“ 

Daisy raised her hand in a ‘stopping’ motion. Thomas gagged on his tongue, his mouth incredibly dry. 

“M’not stupid.” She said, “I know you’ve got to keep it secret.” She smirked again, “Like I said before, I won’t tell a soul.” 

“… Daisy.” He shook his head, fear filling up his heart; how could Daisy ever understand. 

“Just remember, this is what it feels like when you know someone’s secret.” Daisy added, “This is how we all felt for years every time you scared us with one of your heists.” 

An ugly stone of guilt fell into Thomas’ stomach, making a sour taste explode in the back of his mouth as he wilted underneath Daisy’s perceptive stare. 

“But as I say!” Daisy broke back into another cheery smile, fixing her cap around her bobbed hair. She really did look like Clara Bow. “I’ll be takin’ it to me grave. I’ll never tell another soul in all me life.” 

She flounced to the door, opening it and smiling over her shoulder, “Now if you excuse me, I must get on. Dinner and all.” 

She closed the door, leaving Thomas entombed in his own personal hell. 

 

He spent the rest of the afternoon incredibly nervous even as he prepared tea for the family and brought it upstairs to the library. True to her word Daisy kept her truths to herself even as she prepared dinner and bantered with Mrs. Patmore. She didn’t throw Thomas shady looks; she didn’t wink at him or cause alarm in the others. She just kept on like today was a normal day- like she didn’t know a secret that could ruin Thomas’ entire life. 

He was going to have a seizure and no mistake. 

Yet as Thomas went to check on Peter (who was chopping logs for fire in the yard), he returned to find Daisy back to grinning impishly again in the kitchen. 

“Mr. Branson was looking for you.” Mrs. Patmore called out to him as he passed by the kitchen door. Thomas paused in his step, glancing across the steaming kitchen to find Daisy smirking at the stove. “He left a letter in your office.” 

“Mmm.” Thomas nodded, lips pursed tight lest he open them and scream. He headed for his office, unsure of what he’d find on the other side of the door. As he opened it, he found his quarters vacant with a note upon his desk, and closed his office door to slump into his swivel chair and pick up the note. What would Tom say when he found out that Daisy knew their secret? Would he be alarmed or amused? 

To be fair Thomas was still deciding on his own emotions. At this point he was just plain hysterical. 

The note was small, the paper thick and crisp. This was clearly from Tom’s personal stationary, and Thomas opened it to reveal large handwriting in a heavy pressure. His ‘y’s were quite broad… his ‘L’s were heavily looped. Most bizarrely, Tom didn’t seem to enjoy dotting his ‘I’s. Instead he liked to give open circles, which made the whole page look like it was snowing. 

Thomas’ eyes narrowed as he read Tom’s note, which was unsigned: 

_But the greatest love- the love above all loves_ ,  
_even greater than that of a mother… __  
_is the tender, passionate, undying love,_  
_of one beer drunken slob for another.__

__“Excuse me?!” Thomas hissed aloud at the implication, stuck somewhere between amusement and annoyance. Beer drunken slob was he?_ _

__Oh he’d see about this.  
~*~_ _

__Taking tea in the library, Tom tried desperately not to giggle at the thought of Thomas below the stairs no doubt reading his little note. He felt like a school boy again, gleeful for interaction. Life was suddenly a game once more, each day a new adventure as he chased Thomas around the house and dreamed of kissing him at night. Mary knew something was up; she kept looking at him when she thought Tom wasn’t aware. From moping in the snow to grinning by the fire, Tom had done a 180 overnight much to the shock of the Tablot's._ _

__Henry wasn’t complaining or anything- he was just incredibly confused._ _

__Tom knew that it would take time to explain his situation to the family. It couldn’t be done overnight, and not while Robert and Cora were away. He’d wait for them to return, then talk to Robert first alone. Thomas would probably howl and screech like an alley cat, but Tom would help him come round. The family would protect them, he’d see._ _

__Tom couldn’t help his cock-eyed optimism. Life was grand._ _

__The library door opened, and Tom’s grin only became more firmly set as Thomas was revealed upon the stoop holding a tea tray. Mary smirked, shutting her book and setting it next to her on the couch while George and Sybbie perked their heads up from the floor where they’d been playing with Tiaa._ _

__“Bawwow!” George said, delighted. Thomas smiled back but unlike before as his nanny did not make to pick him up or coddle him. George was slightly crestfallen; he’d learn. Thomas couldn’t constantly dote on him._ _

__“Master George.” Thomas murmured softly as he began to pour tea for the family. Tom watched his elegant hands, stomach squirming with delight as he thought of how he’d held those slim fingers and kissed those cool knuckles. He leaned upon the arm of his chair, eyebrow raised as Thomas caught his eye and offered him a cup of tea with a biscuit upon his saucer._ _

__“Mr. Branson-“ Thomas pulled a note from his livery pocket, offering it over to Tom, “This came for you in the post.”_ _

__Oh goody! He was going to play the game. Tom snatched both up at once, setting his tea aside to cool so that he could open his little note._ _

__“Thank you, Thomas.” Tom said, beaming as he blew on his tea._ _

__Thomas offered tea to Mary and Henry both before giving the same to Sybbie and George. They took their tea in smaller cups with much more milk and sugar than the adults but that was just their way._ _

__Thomas’ handwriting was small and neat, lightly slanted with sharp stabs across the ’t’s. They couldn’t have had more opposite hand writing if they tried:_ _

___“The problem with you is when you’re not drunk you’re sober.”_ _ _

__

__Tom choked on his tea, nearly spraying his drink onto his note as he coughed and set his teacup down to clutch his note to his chest. Mary and Henry looked around alarmed._ _

__Thomas was decidedly smug at his tray._ _

__“Tom?” Mary asked, worried. “Is something wrong?”_ _

__“N-nothing t’trouble.” Tom assured her, coughing haggardly into his fist. Jesus that tea had gone down the wrong way. “It’s not bad news it’s just a bad attitude.”_ _

__“The afternoon post hasn’t gone out if you’d like to make a reply, sir.” Thomas said innocently from his serving station, eyes on the ceiling like a saint to the heavens._ _

__“Oh I’d like to make a reply.” Tom growled playfully, pocketing his note._ _

__“Goodness, what a scandal.” Mary’s interest was decidedly peaked with no gossip to munch on and the house half-emptied._ _

__“Nothing to trouble, like I said.” Tom assured her softly, “Lover’s quarrels.”_ _

__“Lovers?” Mary picked up on the word at once, eyes gleaming. Tom grinned, imagining what she might say if she knew the truth. She’d either have a heart attack or a field day. “Does that mean what I think it means?”_ _

__“It means I have a letter to write.” Tom hoisted himself out of his seat, taking his tea with him. “So if you’ll excuse me.” He paused to set his teacup back on Thomas’ serving tray. Lingering only as long as it took to shoot Thomas a meaningful look, Tom slunk to the library door to leave the others to their biscuits and tea._ _

__~*~_ _

__Okay so maybe he’d bit with more gusto that strictly necessary but damnit he was not a beer drunken slob and neither was Tom._ _

__Tom hadn’t re appeared in the library after he’d left to write his reply note, so when Thomas ran out of biscuits he vanished back downstairs as fast as possible to refill his tray._ _

__Heading back upstairs with a replenished load, Thomas opened the green baize door only to be confronted by Tom. He’d come to ambush him in the most delightful of ways and closed the green baize door so that they were momentarily alone in the servant’s stairwell. Thomas grinned, trying to step around Tom with the biscuit tray to return to the library. Tom grabbed him about the waist and buried his face in the back of Thomas’ neck, kissing him softly at his hair line._ _

__“Clever aren’t you?” Tom teased; his hand appeared beneath Thomas’ ribs with a small note folded neatly in fourths. He tucked it into Thomas’ livery pocket. “Chew on this one, love.”_ _

__“There’s a threat in there, somewhere.” Thomas tried to pull away but Tom wouldn’t let him. His mouth was in Thomas’ ear, grinning blissfully._ _

__“Only in the sweetest of places.”_ _

__Thomas beamed, wondering what the ‘sweetest of places’ might consist of. Tom nuzzled his ear, “Come t’me tonight, and I’ll write you more.”_ _

__“I can’t-“ Thomas begged, “Someone might see.”_ _

__“I hope they all see.” Tom said, “You’re never prettier than when you blush.”_ _

__“Away with you!” Thomas squeaked, shrugging out of Tom’s hold and beaming as he clutched his biscuit tray to his chest. Tom feigned mock affront, grinning even as he gaped. “You Irish Mick.” He opened the green baize door back up and headed for the library once more. Tom was left in the hallway, tutting loudly as Thomas walked away. Thomas looked over his shoulder to see Tom watching him in a most decidedly un-gentlemanly way. How dare he._ _

__Naturally Thomas could not read Tom’s reply note in the middle of the library. As he watched over the family to the conclusion of their tea, he felt like Tom’s note was burning a hole in his pocket, and all but skipped downstairs when Mary and Henry gave up their teacups to head into the village for the afternoon. Tom unfortunately had to go with them on estate business but that was no matter. It only gave Thomas more time to read Tom’s note and make his own reply._ _

__He returned back downstairs, depositing his emptied biscuit trays and dirtied tea cups for Gertie to clean in the kitchen before sequestering himself in his office and pulling out Tom’s note. He opened it with glee, relaxing in his swivel chair:_ _

___“May the curse of Mary Malone and her nine blind illegitimate children chase you so far over the hills of Damnation that the lord himself couldn’t find you with a telescope.”_ _ _

__Thomas blinked, thoroughly put in his place.  
~*~_ _

__Dinner that night was a feast of mutton, green corn, and cauliflower; Tom ate his fill, slightly exhausted from his trek to the village as he watched Thomas hold court with Andy at the serving board. Maybe he’d gone slightly overboard with the whole ‘Mary Malone’ trip… but now he couldn’t stop giggling as he watched Thomas glaring at him from across the table._ _

__Mary and Henry were debating the possibility of Henry shipping in a new car from Germany— apparently Henry was getting flack for it when Germany was an ‘enemy’ of England. Mary didn’t have a problem with it, but she certainly enjoyed throwing a bit of shade at those that gave her husband grief. God have mercy on the man that displeased Lady Mary Talbot._ _

__Thomas’ eyes burned into his own. Tom could tell he was practically bursting._ _

___Mercy_ , Thomas seemed to be saying, _Show me mercy_. _ _

___As you wish_. Tom smiled softly, catching Thomas’ eye again before speaking aloud and addressing him at the table, “Thomas did a reply come to my post?” _ _

__“As a matter of fact there was a visitor while you were out.” Thomas replied promptly, “A Ms. Mary Malone… She left a letter.”_ _

__“I see.” Tom grinned, setting down his white wine glass, “May I have it?”_ _

__Thomas ever so gently set down his serving tray of extra mutton; Tom had a feeling he wanted to chuck it as his head. Thomas glided around the perimeter of the table, offering Tom a note from inside his jacket. Tom took at it once, beaming as he opened it at the table. Henry and Mary watched with avid interest, leaving Sybbie the only one eating at the table as Tom read:_ _

___“An Irishman is never at peace except when he’s fighting.”_ _ _

__Tom snorted, folding the note and putting back in his jacket. Thomas looked incredibly calm as he returned to his serving station; Tom watched as Andy began to make his rounds about the table, clearing their plates for the main course so that they could have a fresh winter salad next._ _

__“And who is this Ms. Malone?” Mary asked, tone snipping as she leaned a little at her seat. Oh Tom could tell she was dying to know. She was too much of a gossip to resist._ _

___Easy Mary_ , Tom thought, treating her as he might an over eager labrador for a treat. _You’ll find out in the end_. _ _

__“Oh she’s a fightin’ lass that’s for sure.” Tom smiled across the table, catching Thomas’ eye from where he collected Andy’s gathered plates at the serving station. Thomas kept his servant’s blank firmly intact, but Tom could see a grin itching to come onto his lips._ _

__“Did she put up much of a struggle at the door?” Tom teased, unable to let it lay. Thomas shook his head, not even looking at Tom as he offered Andy the next serving platter full of porcelain bowls stuffed with greens._ _

__“She wanted me to tell you sir,” Thomas turned, smirking, “As bad as I like you, it’s worse without you.’”_ _

___Oh I quite agree_. Tom thought lovingly, unable to keep from beaming as Andy set a salad bowl before him. _ _

__“Better to be quarreling than lonesome.” Tom teased, “Oh, Thomas-!” He just couldn’t let it alone, “Careful for that Mary lass. She’s bitten at the heel-“_ _

__“Then we’ll know her by her limping, sir.” Thomas offered. Tom laughed aloud, unable to stop himself._ _

__Mary looked ready to leap from her chair with curiosity. If she were a dog her tail would have been thumping wildly on the carpet._ _

__“Tom, no more mystery.” Mary’s eyes gleamed with delight as she gripped her red wine glass. Thomas refilled it over her shoulder at her silent beckoning. “Who is Ms. Malone and where did you meet her? I’ve never heard of such a name.”_ _

__No, well, she wouldn’t have would she? Mary Malone was a figment of Ireland’s chaste imagination._ _

__“There is no Mary Malone.” Tom assured her gently. Mary looked incredibly confused, “Mary Malone is an Irish Curse, one that I was familiar with in childhood.”_ _

__“But, I don’t understand.” Mary paused, “Who was at the door?”_ _

__“The saying, in full, is ‘May the curse of Mary Malone and her nine blind illegitimate children chase you so far over the hills of Damnation that the lord himself couldn’t find you with a telescope.’ “ Tom explained. Mary blinked, slightly scandalized._ _

__“Goodness, that’s a mouthful.” Henry declared. “What kind of curse is that?”_ _

__“It’s an old saying,” Tom explained, remembering how his Grandmother had often thrown it at wayward men in their tiny seaside village, “Mary Malone was supposedly a wicked temptress of men but her skills did her no good as each of her illegitimate children was born blind. So it called for its father, never to know him or see him, and the whole lot of them ended up chasing unfortunate men around the earth.”_ _

__“And over the hills of Damnation.” Henry added._ _

__Tom chuckled, toasting Henry with his wine glass. As he drained it Thomas came around with the decanter in hand. Tom took great comfort in being side by side with the man he loved, watching how Thomas poured wine with the utmost care. Amazing how even the simplest things he did were done with affection. It amazed him that the others could not see how much Tom loved him. That they were oblivious when the truth was right before their eyes._ _

__“Exactly.” Tom said, taking a sip of his refilled wine. “That’s what you get for failing to marry a lass in Ireland… Anyways-“ He sat his wine glass down to work on his salad, “That’s Mary Malone. She’s not an actual person.”_ _

__“There is no cure for love other than marriage.” Henry said._ _

__“But she sent you a letter.” Mary grumbled. “So who was at the door?”_ _

__“Oh you best start running Tom.” Henry joked from across the table, “The hills of damnation are getting closer.”_ _

__“I won’t be put off!” Mary warned, pointing a gloved finger at him, “I know you’re seeing someone. You ought to bring her round and appease me. We’ll have a feast.”_ _

___He’s literally right behind you_. Tom smirked, glancing at Thomas over Mary’s shoulder. Thomas glanced at the back of Mary’s head, catching Tom’s eyes. Clearly he didn’t think there was a feast in their future but Tom disagreed. They’d come round… Tom just needed to introduce this topic slowly. With caution and calm. It might take them a while but these were good people and this house was safe. Thomas was just paranoid, and who could blame him after the life he’d lead? But Tom was determined that eventually one day Thomas would relax. That he would be able to look at the people around him and see only friends, not enemies. _ _

__** “Ní féasta go rósta, 'is ní céasta go pósta.” Tom declared in his native tongue. From behind Mary, Thomas paused, clearly thinking through his words. Tom wondered if he’d been studying Gaelic. If he knew what Tom had just said and was trying to make reply._ _

__“Another mouthful.” Henry teased as he finished his own salad._ _

__“What on earth was that?” Mary wondered._ _

__“Gaelic.” Tom said, “The native language of Ireland… Don’t you know some, Thomas?”_ _

__Mary looked around in her chair, curious. Thomas paused by his serving tray, thinking his words through with care._ _

__** “Is breá liom tú” Thomas finally replied. “Sir.”_ _

__Tom flushed, suddenly quite forgetting his salad and dinner company as he stared Thomas full in the face. Mary looked between the two of them, curious as to what was unfolding just beyond her reach._ _

__How was she to know that Thomas had just said he loved him.  
Tom fingered the stem of his fragile wine glass, eyes never leaving Thomas’ as he made his reply. _ _

__** “Tá tú mo chroí.” Tom said. Thomas didn’t know Gaelic well enough to make sense of it but he’d learn in time._ _

__Tom would teach him._ _

__“I didn’t realize how close you two had become.” Mary teased, swiveling back around in her seat. Thomas jerked his head at Andy, and the pair of them began collecting plates for the dessert course… a delicious Florentine pudding and french ice side. “Perhaps he’s the one I should be asking questions to.”_ _

__“Oh don’t you bother him.” Tom said, eager to keep Thomas out of the spotlight. “That’s hardly fair.”_ _

__“Barrow, who was at the door, really?” Mary asked, swiveling back around in her seat to catch Thomas’ eye as he served up slices of Florentine pudding at his serving station. Thomas flushed, eyes widening as he suddenly realized he would have to lie to a member of the gentry._ _

__“Don’t answer that.” Tom negated at once. Mary swiveled back around, affronted. “If Mary wants to find out the answer she’ll have to play the game.”_ _

__“Alright.” She warned in a soft voice, drumming her fingers elegantly upon the silk tablecloth, “But I warn you, Tom. I’ll win.”_ _

__~*~_ _

__Dinner was followed up by brandy and cigars in the library, with even Lady Mary sitting by as she took her coffee at her husband’s side. It was highly unusual but no one seemed to mind. Tonight was the night for oddities with gaelic being spoken in the dining room and Tom’s reply note burning another hole in his trouser pocket. He prayed that Lady Mary would be kept off the scent long enough to give him and Tom some time. Daisy was one measure- naive and gentle… Lady Mary was another. The moment she found out that Thomas was courting her departed sister’s widower husband Thomas was certain she was going to ring for the police herself._ _

__Nervous with his growing thoughts, Thomas sat pondering in his office, looking at Tom’s note upon his desk. Unfolded, it lay gleaming in the light of his oil lamp to read:_ _

___“If now you hate me as you say, Can you forget so soon How you and I, the world away, Once lay and watched the moon?”_ _ _

__Followed by the jotted line, _“Find me in the moonlight and roses.”_ _ _

__More poetry, and none of it by Tom’s original hand. Both of them read far too much for their own good._ _

__Thomas looked out at his window, noting the moon now fat and yellow in the sky. When should he dare to make his escape from the downstairs? The servant’s dinner was done and dusted- Anna was upstairs caring for Lady Mary and Andy was playing Daisy a piano tune in the servant’s hall. Was Tom out in the snow right now, burning a hole through the ice with his fiery love?_ _

__Thomas sighed and folded up his note, putting it back in his livery pocket. He was making quite a collection._ _

__A knock on his door rattled his thoughts. Thomas sat up at once, smoothing his hair as he called out, “Come in.”_ _

__Anna was on the other side, smiling with her coat on and William in her arms sleeping. It was clear she was about to leave for the cottage._ _

__“Mr. Barrow, can I speak with you before I head out?” Anna asked._ _

__“Sure.” Thomas gestured for Anna to close the door and she did so at once, “What of?”_ _

__“Lady Mary spoke to me tonight while I dressed her for bed.” Anna explained, patting William softly upon his back through his coat and jumper. He could be faintly heard snoring amid their conversation, “She mentioned that you and Mr. Branson had grown quite close and that Mr. Branson was seeing someone? She wants to know who and wondered if you might say.”_ _

__Fuck._ _

__Thomas clenched his jaw tight, sweating silently in his chair as Anna waited expectantly. Thomas did not want to lie to her, not after having apologized so profusely to her only days ago for his collected sins. At the same time the truth was flat out impossible._ _

__“…I’m afraid I know nothing about it.” Thomas murmured, hating to have to lie. Maybe his reluctance showed in his voice, for Anna pressed gently-_ _

__“But she said you met the woman at the door… the doorbell never rang though so you must have known she was there-“_ _

__“Mr. Branson has requested I not speak of it.” Was the only excuse Thomas could come up with, “So I’m afraid I cannot say.”_ _

__Anna was slightly taken aback, “But why?” She wondered, “What’s so murky about this woman? She’s not a radical is she?”_ _

___She’s a flagrant homosexual sitting five feet away from you_. Thomas thought bitterly. _ _

__“No, I shouldn’t think so.” He mumbled. “Mr. Branson doesn’t want to make anything official until he’s… sure.”_ _

___Sure_. What a ridiculous word. Sure of what? Prison time? _ _

__“Well that’s odd.” Anna admitted, put out. “But if that’s his wish I’ll convey it to her.”_ _

__“I thank you for that.” Thomas rose wearily from his chair, “Now if you excuse me I want to get a bit of fresh air before I close up for the night.”_ _

__“Mind you take your coat.” Anna advised, “It’s still snowing something fierce. I’m taking the wagonette with Daisy back to Mr. Mason’s cottage tonight. I can’t bear to be alone at my house-“_ _

__Right. He didn’t care. Thank you Anna, goodnight._ _

__He helped Anna to the back door, holding it open for both her and Daisy so that they could step through and out into the snow. Mr. Mason was there waiting with his buggy and cart, smiling generously at the two women as Thomas helped them up onto the back where bales of hay and blankets lay waiting to keep them warm. Mr. Mason tipped his hat to Thomas before clicking his reigns and taking off across the grounds._ _

__The night was cool, almost stingingly so, but Thomas didn’t care. The snow crunched underfoot, a lovely noise to Thomas’ ears as he headed far out into grounds where Lady Grantham’s rose maze sat wilting in the winter weather. Once he’d taken refuge in this same garden to hide from Dr. Kinsey. Now, he took refuge to hide from the world. Somewhere in this maze, Tom was waiting. Thomas sequestered himself deep within the dormant roses, hiding as he crouched down and waited for Tom to appear._ _

__As quiet took over for a moment, Thomas fingered the glossy black leaves of Lady Grantham’s hedges and closed his eyes listening to the night around him. There were no crickets, no birds rustling in the night. Winter had a way of silencing everything… even the approaching footsteps that Thomas could sense just around the corner. He put a hand over his mouth to keep from laughing, eyes closed—_ _

__A sudden sensation of movement overtook him as Tom came up from behind and clapped his hands over Thomas’ eyes. Obscuring him in warm darkness amid the snow, Thomas leaned back into Tom’s strong chest and allowed Tom to pull his hand from his mouth so that he could capture his lips in a blind kiss from behind._ _

__Tom’s mouth soothed him, burned him, made him feel like it was the middle of summer even as snow started to fall again. Tom chased every flick that came near his face, smothering him in love as Thomas reached behind him to find Tom’s chest and waist. He squeezed, pulling him even closer._ _

__“Don’t curse me anymore m’darlin-“ Tom whispered into his ear, “Tell me of your love for me.”_ _

__“S’wide and green as Ireland herself.” Thomas said, which he thought might please Tom despite him having fifty other comparisons in his repertoire. Tom chuckled in his ear, turning him around. Now they were facing one another, and Tom dropped his hand so that Thomas could finally see him. Tom was beaming, still in white tie as he leaned in and gently kissed fully upon the lips, no longer having to strain or reach. It amazed him how soft Tom could be- how tender. Most times when Thomas had been kissed, his partners had been trying to wage war on him._ _

__But Tom didn’t want to fight. At least… not on this._ _

__Tom whispered in his ear, his fingers mapping out Thomas’ face and neck as he spoke poetry, “Have you forgotten too, m’flower, how often you would tell how God ne’er made until that hour, a man you loved so well?”_ _

__Cheeky, cheeky! Thomas had been wooed before, but never by poetry— heavens, Tom was going for the top prize. He buried his face in Tom’s shoulder, unable to stop from grinning._ _

__“Could never forget.” He whispered. Tom picked his face back up, his grip strong but sweet as he peppered Thomas’ cheeks with kisses. Thomas turned, brushing his nose against the side of Tom’s as he spoke, fishing up poetry of his own, “After the tiff, there was stiff silence, till- one word, flung in the center like single stone, starred and cracked the ice of his resentment to its edge.”_ _

__“What was the word?” Tom wondered. Hardly an answer that needed much thought._ _

__“Prick.” Thomas admitted. How how it had wounded him when Tom had yelled at him in the servant’s yard, “You called me a prick.”_ _

__“Mmm, but I love your prick-“ Tom teased._ _

__“Cheeky!” Thomas cried out, shoving Tom back as heat exploded in his face from embarrassment. Tom burst out laughing, slapping a hand to his knee as Thomas huffed and turned away, “Here I was talkin’ of love, and you can only want for one thing.”_ _

__“Don’t take on so-!” Tom teased, swooping in to wrap his arms around Thomas from behind again. Thomas crossed his arms over his chest, eyes narrowed as he pouted at the greenery. “T’morrow you and I… let’s go for a walk in the woods, eh? We’ll go lookin’ for Cora’s sapphires.”_ _

__“i think they’re gone to be honest.” Thomas muttered, still pouting a little… still, there was something to be said for that shed in the woods._ _

__It made his heart pound in his chest._ _

__“Ah, but we might find something hidden in the leaves.” Tom whispered in his ear, “Who knows.”_ _

__“And how will we explain it?” Thomas asked, turning around so that Tom’s arms encircled him. Their noses brushed again, Thomas’ pout vanishing, “How do I sneak away when I’m the butler?”_ _

__“Say you’re going to the village, I’ll drive you.” Tom offered._ _

__“For what?” Thomas asked, wracking his brain for something they needed. The only thing he could come up with was brown shoe polish._ _

__“For Beechams-“ Tom fished, “Like I bloody well care. Just make an excuse… and we’ll make our escape.”_ _

__But an escape to what? As easy as it was for Thomas to walk on sunshine knowing that he was loved he was still terrified of the world and everyone in it. What if someone came walking through the woods? What if Tom changed his mind and decided he didn’t love Thomas anymore? Thomas frowned, captivated in thought, but Tom had a remedy._ _

__“Hey.” He whispered in Thomas’ ear, hands slipping lower to rest upon the curve of Thomas’ backside. “It’ll be alright. I’ll be with you.”_ _

__Whether he meant to or not, he squeezed; Thomas gasped at the sensation of Tom’s fingers gripping his backside, unsure what to say or whether he should say anything at all. Tom was a gentleman; he didn’t jump bases like a flee for new blood. He probably hadn’t meant it… but still. It reminded Thomas of what it felt like to be moved by a man’s touch._ _

__“Sorry.” Tom grinned. He didn’t sound sorry at all. “I’ve wanted to do that for ages to be honest.”_ _

__“W-… why?” Thomas buried his head into the crook of Tom’s neck. He couldn’t tell what was hotter… Tom’s skin or Thomas’ cheeks._ _

__“Cause.” Tom whispered into his ear, “You’re beautiful.”_ _

__Tom squeezed again, fingers digging in deep to the swell of Thomas’ flesh. Thomas practically choked on his tongue._ _

__

__He thought on Tom’s touch that night, groaning as he lay in his narrow bed under too thin sheets. It had been so long since a man had wanted him- Thomas’ flesh felt hyper sensitized as his imagination kicked into over drive. He dug his toes into the lumpy mattress beneath him as he thought to Tom without his clothes on. Tom would have strong arms- a barrel chest and powerful thighs. He’d be heavy, warm, and would cover Thomas completely. Thomas’ fingers itched as he explored his own body late that night, wondering what Tom would touch and how— Thomas’ eyes fluttered close as he reached around to cup his backside just as Tom had done. He could almost feel the ghost of Tom’s fingers hugging his flesh. He wanted to be consumed, swallowed, taken hostage. He wanted to be possessed by Tom. He wanted it to be so bad Mr. Carson would call in a priest for an exorcism._ _

___“He’s possessed!”_ the priest would declare, _“Best give him up for lost.”_ and the others would shrug and sigh while Tom and Thomas rutted like animals on unholy ground. Forever and ever, Amen. _ _

__The next day, just as planned, Thomas came up with the clever excuse of having to run to the village for several things so that Mrs. Patmore was officially in charge until he got back. He had to collect brown shoe polish, black thread for Anna, a bundle of dried lavender for Mrs. Patmore, another pack of cigarettes for the hall boy Peter (he really needed to stop) and a sweet for Daisy just to make sure she stayed quiet about Tom._ _

__And a telescope which Thomas found with a broken eye glass in the back of Mr. Carson’s cabinet. It was very important that it be mended before his lordship returned, or so he swore to the others when they inquired about it._ _

__So it was that when Tom came to pick him up at the back gate, he carried the telescope in hand and used it as a chaste rod between the pair of them. Tom drove from the estate, first taking Thomas to the village so that he could collect everything he needed before then turning right back around and using a back road so that they might visit the notorious ‘cabin’ from Lady Grantham’s sapphire scandal. It was easy enough to find, with the woods thinned in winter cold and the river frozen over. Tom followed him at a gentle pace, neither hurried nor afraid as he took great lungfuls of air and beamed up at the partly cloudy sky._ _

__“Remind me again, why you brought that telescope?” Tom asked as Thomas spun it carefully in his hands. He’d gotten the glass repaired and had now been using it to gaze at everything from flowers to birds as they walked. It was oddly heavy for its slim size._ _

__“T’fix the seeing glass.” Thomas explained, for Tom had been posting a letter when Thomas had made to fix the thing, “It was my excuse.”_ _

__Tom reached for it and Thomas gave it over so that Tom could gaze at things through the eyehole. “Maybe we’ll see Mary Malone.” He teased. Suddenly, Tom swung the telescope around so that he nearly hit Thomas it the face with the end piece._ _

__“My god! An angel from heaven-“_ _

__“Get that out of m’face.” Thomas batted the end of the telescope away, sniggering as Tom continue to try and shove it onto his cheekbone._ _

__“No really, you need to look! It’s an angel!”_ _

__“Can’t be.”_ _

__“I swear! Look-“_ _

__“The only thing you’ll be looking at is dirt if you put that telescope in m’face again.”_ _

__Beneath them, the very barest springs of green shoots were attempting to make their way up out of frigid soil. There were no flowers, not yet. It was far too early for such things and even if a flower managed to pop through it would be killed by the falling snow. This grass would suffer a similar fate, probably not lasting more than a week before being pushed back into the earth by angry winter. Tom reached over to pluck up a few shoots, twisting to them together like leather as if to make a bracelet._ _

__Thomas found himself wanting to smell Tom’s fingers where they’d been stained the slightest green._ _

__As they came around a bend in their minuscule trail, Tom’s face lit up with a snort at the sight of Thomas’ fabled cabin. It was now crowned white with snow from yesterday, making it look a bit like a gingerbread house with icicles hanging around the room and it’s lone window iced over. Giddy, Tom hopped from foot to foot, bounding up to the door to yank it open and peer inside._ _

__“Christ it’s filthy!” He said, pushing the door wide so that weak vestiges of sunlight could stream inside. There were the boxes, just as Thomas had left them. Tom kicked them over, shifting them left and right so clear the dusty floor. “You never told me it was so dirty-“_ _

__“You saw me that day in the library.” Thomas stepped gingerly inside, looking about wary of errant animals or bugs, even in winter. Who knew what could be hibernating here, “I was just as unkempt.”_ _

__“Yeah but I figured you got that from runnin’ in the woods, not the shed.”_ _

__“Tit for tat.”_ _

__Tom squatted down on the floor, relaxing against the wood as he fiddled with his grass bracelet. Thomas watched him for a moment, slightly nervous to join. But if ever there were a message for privacy it was an unmarked shed in the back of the estate woods. What harm could it come to? Thomas took a seat next to Tom, drawing patterns in the dust on the floor. It was so dense he nearly caught his finger on the rusted tip of a nail and drew back at once with a grimace. How funny… Tom’s fingers were green and his were black. There was a warning in that somewhere._ _

__“S’not as green as Irish grass, but it’ll do.” Tom offered Thomas the woven bracelet. Thomas smelt it to be overtaken by the musk of oncoming spring._ _

__It must be very hard for Tom, to be so far away from the place he loved. But Tom had gone to Boston and been just as unhappy there so what was the lesson for him to learn? Happiness was to be made, not found. Thomas knew that full well, for where on Earth could he run to claim a better life? He could search to the ends of the space and time and still be just as unhappy as he was at Downton._ _

__“The far hill always looks green” Thomas advised, pressed slightly close to Tom’s side. Tom leaned into him, whispering to his ear._ _

__“You’ve never been to Ireland.”_ _

__“I’d like to.” Thomas admitted. He’d like to go to many places if he was honest. Tom shrugged his coat off his shoulders, using it as padding for them to sit on so that their muscles didn’t ache on a cold wooden floor. He now leaned into Thomas even more, longing for warmth._ _

__“S’funny.” Tom admitted, looking slightly repulsed by what he was about to say, “But the thought of you going to Ireland without me makes me upset. I can never go back.”_ _

__Ah, there it was. The bitter sting of jealousy. Thomas knew it well. He observed Tom’s usually calm, kind face now twisted with bitter defeat. He reasoned on the spot that he would never go to Ireland without Tom. That so long as Tom was kept from its shores, he too would be ignorant of its pleasures._ _

__“I won’t go until you can go.” Thomas said softly, “So that way we can go together.”_ _

__Tom looked up at him, brown eyes widening in slightest surprise. A smile curved at his mouth, but fell away after a moment. He still looked burdened, troubled, and Thomas waited patiently to hear what he was going to say._ _

__“…Can I tell you a secret?” Tom asked, “I think you’d be the only one to understand or even praise me.”_ _

__Thomas nodded, flushing. It was a prideful moment, to be offered someone’s secrets after having spent so much of his life twisting people’s problems to aid him in his own. It was an incredible show of trust and he did not take it lightly. Whatever Tom was about to tell him, Thomas decided he would never breath it to another soul. It would be his silent show of changed character. A badge of honor for him to wear without another knowing._ _

__“…I helped with that fire.” Tom whispered. “The one that set that estate on fire? I helped. I didn’t just watch. It was an act of anger and I immediately regretted it when the flames got out of control… but I did help. I remember watching people run from that house. Like rabbits running from a briar. Dogs barking, women screaming. I knew I’d done something unforgivable.”_ _

__Tom looked away. Thomas reached out, dirty fingers slightly blackening Tom’s cheek as he turned Tom’s face back to his own._ _

__“People are cruel all around.” Thomas whispered, “You don’t set someone’s house on fire unless they’re a bastard to you. You’re hardly a pyromaniac.”_ _

__Tom’s smile looked slightly more than a wince._ _

__“It didn’t make it right.” Tom mumbled, turning his face so that his mouth was over Thomas’ fingers. He kissed his digits softly._ _

__“…Maybe not.” Thomas reasoned. “But they still bloody deserved it.”_ _

__Tom smiled softly against his fingers, looking back around so that their noses could brush. He leaned in and kissed Thomas softly upon the mouth._ _

__It was incredibly freeing, to kiss Tom without fear of being caught or seen. Left to soar at his own pace, Thomas brought up his other hand to cup Tom against the small of his back, to feel Tom out truly. He was stockier than Thomas, his waist far from narrow and his shoulders broader. He was almost like a shield for Thomas to hide behind, and it comforted him to know that Tom was so solid and strong. That if anyone attempted to hurt him, Tom would block them._ _

__Tom was falling backward and taking Thomas with him. Suddenly they were laying on the floor with only Tom’s coat to protect them from the dust. Thomas was over him, atop him, able to cover him and give him warmth. Now Thomas could feel more of Tom. Could feel his pounding heart beneath his shirt and vest- the soft, slightest curve of his stomach by his belt, the strength in his leg muscles- Thomas’ hands traced them all, amazed at how handsome Tom was. Did he even know?_ _

__No. Of course not. Tom was far too cerebral to think about such physical things… but Thomas could appreciate it well enough._ _

__“Oh god-“ Tom groaned, eyes pinched closed in a haze of lust as Thomas’ fingers skirted the crease in the seat of his trousers, “Thomas-“_ _

__But he didn’t get to say much more. Thomas covered his mouth again, kissing him soundly as he spread his fingers wide to cup the bulge of his crotch. Even with pants and trousers blocking the way, Thomas could tell that Tom had a thick cock- that his balls were large. Maybe he’d just groped enough men in the dark to have this down to a science._ _

___Gunsel!_ Thomas’ marbles jeered. _ _

__But he wanted more. More damnit more._ _

__Despite only being with Tom for a few days, Thomas reached with his mouth to kiss Tom everywhere he could reach. He pulled Tom’s shirttails from his waist to reveal Tom’s stomach. It was soft, gently covered in a thin downy brown hair. Thomas kissed a trail down Tom’s stomach, tongue plunging into his belly button to taste the warmth he found there. Tom was groaning beneath him; Thomas nipped at the skin of Tom’s belly button with his teeth, careful as he reached Tom’s waist band-_ _

__He undid Tom’s trouser buttons, letting each one pop free. Beneath him, Tom was breathing raggedly, almost to the point of ecstasy. Thomas’ stomach lurched with excitement as the white cloth of Tom’s pants peeked beneath his trouser opening. Thomas reached in with his hand, cupping and kissing at Tom’s obvious bulge. He mouthed at Tom’s cock, tongue dampening the cloth of his pants as-_ _

__“Wait, wait-“ Tom breathed, sitting up, “Stop-“ He reached down, cupping Thomas’ chin and pulling him forcibly away from his pants. Thomas gaped, heavily embarrassed to be caught with someone’s cock in his mouth, but Tom wasn’t frowning. He was smiling, brushing Thomas’ hair back from his face where it had fallen free of its pomade hold._ _

__“C’mere.” Tom seemed to realize Thomas was humiliated. He pulled Thomas to his chest; Thomas was almost sitting in his lap._ _

__Thomas’ heart pounded… what had he done wrong?_ _

__“You don’t have to do any of that unless y’ want to. Okay?” Tom said softly, ‘It’s not some kind of… requirement. We’ll get to that when we get to that.” He brushed his thumbs over Thomas’ high cheekbones, feeling the heat in the skin, “I just want to be with you. You don’t have to… prove your worth to me.”_ _

__Thomas was speechless, left gaping at Tom who still rubbed his cheeks sweetly._ _

__“Hey.” Tom tried to bring him back to the present, even as Thomas’ dumb brain fumbled with the concept that he didn’t have to pleasure a man in order to be with him. That a man would want him simply because of- because of… what? What exactly?_ _

__“No one’s ever said that to me before.” Thomas admitted. Tom nuzzled him, kissing him again. Thomas clung to him in that moment, burying his face in Tom’s shoulder as Tom brought her arms up around Thomas’ back._ _

__“I can tell.” Tom murmured in his ear. “And that’s a shame.”_ _

__

__It was odd, as they walked back to the edge of the woods where Tom’s motorcar stood waiting for them on the side of the dirt road. Thomas felt weirdly closer to Tom despite not having been with him sexually. It suddenly occurred to him that the success of their relationship had very little to do with whether or not Tom liked the sex and that honestly soothed him. He’d been afraid deep down that when presented with the facts Tom might not enjoy sex with another man. But it seemed that Tom wasn’t too deeply invested with sex being a staple part of the relationship. For some reason, god help him as to why, Tom loved Thomas for Thomas…_ _

__Thomas wondered if Tom should seek therapy._ _

__The next few days passed with increasing delight as Tom continued to sneak him notes all over the house. Where Thomas had once had letters from a duke, stamped with a fancy letterhead, he now had torn out book pages and tiny slips of paper from note pads. Each was pressed with care, kept in his nightstand drawer tied with a green ribbon Thomas had found in his valet button box. It had once been used to line one of Lord Grantham’s vests. Now he used it to keep Tom safe… and at night when his door was closed and his lights were off Thomas would kiss the pages tenderly. God help him he slept with them underneath his pillow, letting them grow warm next to his skin._ _

__He didn’t care what the insinuations were. He was obsessed with the good feeling Tom gave him._ _

__A few days after going with Tom into the woods. Thomas returned to his office from picking up the afternoon post to find that there was another letter on his desk with no marked name. Smiling, Thomas shut the door on the sounds of Daisy getting chewed out by Mrs. Patmore to take a seat in his swivel chair and pick up Tom’s note:_ _

___“After dinner, meet me underneath the willow tree. Dress for fun. Treat for you in York. —Mary Malone.”_ _ _

__“…Fun, eh?” Thomas wondered softly, fingering Tom’s note as he slipped it into his inner vest pocket. He could do with a bit of fun._ _

__Dinner was a simple affair that night, with Lady Mary desperately pestering Tom for more information on ‘Mary Malone’ and Mr. Talbot gushing about new cars in London that were about to be on display next week. He wanted to go and to take Tom with him. He even urged Lady Mary to go along, insisting that everyone could have a day off downstairs. But Thomas didn’t want a day off if it meant a day away from Tom, and watched Tom carefully as Tom said he’d ‘think’ about it. Tom didn’t look too amused either, but instead caught Thomas’ eye over his wine glass._ _

___I’ll figure a way out of this_ , Tom seemed to be saying. Thomas smiled, soothed. _ _

__

__Tom decided not to partake in port or cigars after dinner, thus causing Mr. Talbot to turn in early as well. As Thomas passed Anna on the way down the stairs, he took a sharp turn up towards the attics instead of heading to his office for nightly paperwork. Shedding his livery quickly, Thomas put on his best day suit (dark blue, pinstriped) and re-smoothed his hair with pomade as he grabbed his trilby hat. The others would wonder but Thomas wouldn’t budge an inch as he descended the stairs. Where he went was none of their business._ _

__“Where are you off to?” Mrs. Patmore demanded as Thomas passed by the kitchen door at the bottom of the stairs. Gertie was squirreling away at the kitchen, washing up._ _

__“I’m meeting a friend for a drink.” Thomas informed her. “He’s come from out of town. I’ll be back late, lock the door without me, I’ll take my key.”_ _

__“Well be sure you’re back before the snow starts!” Mrs. Patmore said, waving a spatula like a General’s marching stick, “The last thing we need is you sick as a dog.”_ _

__“Yes, yes.” Thomas hardly paid her any mind, heading for his office; he’d wrap the finest pieces of silver up for the night, lock the cabinet, cellar, and pantry, then make his way out. Each task was easy to accomplish- he almost couldn’t keep from smiling as he finally made his way out. Yet as he closed his office door, he was suddenly taken up by the sight of Anna. She hadn’t gotten her coat yet; William wasn’t in her arms. Clearly she was still in the middle of tasks._ _

__“Goodness.” She smiled at his change of wear, “Going somewhere?”_ _

__“Out for a drink.” Thomas said, locking his office door and slipping his key inside his vest pocket._ _

__“I wondered if I could ask you something.” Anna said; the pair of them walked side by side as Thomas headed for the back door where coats hung on pegs. He took his own up, shrugging it on to help with the winter cold._ _

__“Yes, go on.”_ _

__“It’s about Mr. Branson’s sweetheart-“_ _

__“Anna, I don’t know a thing about it.” Thomas lied, careful not to meet her eyes. God how he hated this charade._ _

__“Yes, but Lady Mary thinks you do.” Anna urged, “And she’s begging for you to give something.”_ _

__“It’s none of her business.” Thomas snapped.  
A sudden silence fell. Anna blinked, shocked at his change of tone. Thomas pursed his lips, hands pausing upon the buttons of his coat as he touched his brow where a tension knot was forming underneath the skin. _ _

__“… It’s no one’s business but Mr. Branson’s.” Thomas finally finished, “And Lady Mary needs to understand that.”_ _

__“Fair enough.” Anna grumbled, “But if it’s only Mr. Branson’s business then how are you in the know?”_ _

__Thomas flushed, unsure of what to say to her. He couldn’t even face her now, turning away to the back door which he unlocked and opened on a blanket of falling snow._ _

__“I have to go, Anna. Goodnight.” He closed the door on her even as she opened her mouth to make an irritated reply. Whatever she had to say, Thomas didn’t want to hear it. He was sorry for his actions in the past, but even with newfound resolve could not keep from wanting to protect Tom in the present. Lady Mary was dangerously close to figuring out their secret. The thought made him jumpy._ _

__He crossed the area yard, his feet leaving trails behind him in the white as he entered the sloping western lawns to where few trees stood sprinkling the grass. One of them was an ancient willow, a tree that he had once attempted to hide behind when Tiaa had brought his Tom’s hat instead of her stick. Thomas ventured there now, pressing his back to the back as he waited for Tom to join him._ _

__His nerves jangled him as he considered Anna and Lady Mary. If one found out the other would too… and then everyone would know. Anna would tell Lady Mary, Lady Mary would tell the upstairs. The downstairs would hear it through every nook and cranny… There would be no where to hide. No where to take refuge._ _

__Frightened by the prospect of what lay ahead, Thomas suddenly found his fingers digging into his trouser pockets. He found his silver lighter and pulled it out, flicking it experimentally in his hands. The tiny light gave him meagre warmth in the dark- snow flitted in and out, burned away by its blazing aura._ _

__Hands shot out from the dark behind him, covering his eyes.  
Unfortunately they also touched the flame. _ _

__“Yeouch!” Tom cried out, leaping away to clutch his hand to his chest. Thomas clicked his lighter shut at once, dropping it into his pocket as he whirled around and grabbed Tom’s injured hand. It just _had_ to be the one he’d broke two fingers on! _ _

__“That’s what you get for trying to surprise me!” Thomas chastised him, “Let me see-“ He peeled back Tom’s clenched fingers to see a shiny pink spot on his ring finger. It was barely the size of a button, “Oh you big baby, it’s not that bad.”_ _

__“It bloody well hurt!” Tom grumbled, put out. Eager to save the mood of their night, Thomas gently brought Tom’s hurt finger to his mouth and kissed him right over his burn. He could feel the heat in the skin._ _

__“Well let that be your just deserts.” Thomas whispered, and kissed him again._ _

__Tom’s frown disappeared, turning into a soft smile. He leaned in and before Thomas could react, Tom kissed him full on the mouth._ _

__“This Irish Mick’s got a treat for his cold English sweetheart.” Tom joked._ _

__“Then show it, why don’t you.” Thomas teased, grinning. Tom grabbed his hand, bandages warm against Thomas’ freezing hands, and pulled him across the lawn. They went back almost in the direction of the house, side tracking for the alley behind the servant’s area yard to approach the garage which was locked and dark. Tom withdrew a key from his pocket, unlocking the chain that kept the doors closed to slide them open. Iron and wood ground against one another in a terrible rattling yowl._ _

__“C’mon. Lift over.” Tom advised. Thomas stepped in the gloom of the garage, swallowed up by the dark as he took a canvas sheet draped over Tom’s motorcar to pull it up and free. Together, they lifted the sheet and drew her all the way back over the trunk so that it could fall to the ground. Now free to climb inside, Tom and Thomas both hopped in the car. Tom turned on the engine, taking a few seconds to start as the motor clicked and sputtered to life._ _

__“Where are we going?” Thomas asked._ _

__“To York!” Tom declared, pulling the car out. Eager to keep their trilby hats from blowing away, Thomas yanked his off his head and grabbed Tom’s as well. He stuffed them between their bodies, so that they were almost sitting on their hats as Tom took them down the winding alley back towards the open country road._ _

__“There’s a new pub opening tonight!” Tom explained, “It’s got Irish roots and all me friends swear it’s a happy jig. I wanted to give it a go with you, we’ve done enough drinkin’ with the dead- now let’s drink with the living!”_ _

__“Sláinte!” Thomas cried out in agreement. Tom cheered, honking the horn as they roared down the lane._ _

__It took them a little over an hour to arrive in York, with Tom taking a back road abandoned by drivers and the hour so late. When they finally arrived, they had to park the car rather far away from the bar in question; so many cars had already filled up the lane. Running down the sidewalk like children to a fair, Tom all but gasped as the lights of the new establishment lit up the pavement. It was, quite honestly, a very handsome bar on the edge of York proper. Outside the bustle of the city near a park, it was earthy in appearance with heavy wooden frames and stained glass in the windows. Several men were already drunk outside, giggling with one another as they drank beer on the stoop which had been cleared of snow. A massive wooden sign hung over the door, declaring: _The Näive Bar_. _ _

__“Ah, it makes my bones ache!” Tom was almost giddy, running his hand up and down the door frame as they entered. The bar was packed full of people, every table and booth full as men from all walks of life got a beer. There were darts and card games in the corner; a band was set up on a small platform playing an Irish reel. Equipped with an uilleann pipe, bombarde, binou, fiddle and flute, they were a merry company. Many men were clapping in time, or stomping their feet. The few women that could be found in the bar were dancing around the band, their hair down and bouncing at their shoulders as they screamed at the entertained crowd. When one man would get tired of dancing, another would get up and give them a go- the poor girls were red faced from the exertion of keeping up._ _

__“The Näive Bar…” Thomas said the name aloud, wondering what it meant, “I don’t understand.”_ _

__“Ah, that’s Harry Clarke glass!” Tom pointed to the stained glass windows as they passed in their pursuit of the bar. “Näive is a type of Irish art, dove. Näive artists aren’t imposed with an education. They’re children at heart and paint what they see, nothing more. Look-!” Tom pointed to many of the framed paintings hanging on the walls. They looked like they’d been done by children but there was something oddly freeing about them. All pictured coastal scenes._ _

__“They’re Tory Island painters!” Tom was amazed at their love. “My god, I love it here! I think I’m heaven!”_ _

__They approached the bar, and Tom elbowed his way to the front to see what was on tap. He wasn’t disappointed, “Ah! Stouts and red ales! Oh help me god.” Tom banged his fist on the glossy bar, looking left and right for the barman. He was a portly fellow with thinning hair. Chummy, the barman threw a rag over his enormous shoulder as he elbowed his way back over to Tom to fetch him a clean glass._ _

__“God bless you, you Irish bastard!”  
The barman cackled at Tom’s response. Clearly he’d been getting this sort of talk all night. _ _

__“That’s De Burg to you!” Mr. De Burg snorted, setting Tom’s expecting glass down. “And who might you be, you drunk paddy?”_ _

__“Branson!” Tom reached right over the bar, lifting himself up on tip toe so that he could shake the man’s hand properly. My god he was chummy with strangers. “Tom Branson, and I’m not drunk yet! I need your help to get me there. Get me a Beamish and Crawford right now!” He pounded his fist on the bar in enthusiasm, looking over his shoulder to catch Thomas’ eyes._ _

__He was gleaming, red faced and seething with delight. Good lord._ _

__“And another one for my wildflower!” Tom grabbed him right around the neck, yanking him in. Nervous at being taken in a bad way, Thomas had to gently pull back. But the barman just laughed, filling up a glass till it was rich with dark brown and foam._ _

__“What’s an English bloke like you doing here?” Mr. De Burg demanded, handing Tom over his beer. Tom gobbled his own down at once, licking his lips in contentment._ _

__These men, honestly._ _

__“I’ll take an Irish Stout.” Thomas said calmly, and De Burg nodded to fill up the second glass. Thomas’ drink was black, menacing looking as De Burg handed it over. Thomas caught Tom’s eye, noting the challenge that lay there._ _

__“What?” Thomas cocked a fine eyebrow, “Think I can’t drink beer?”_ _

__Thomas lifted the beer to his lips and swallowed repeatedly. After a few seconds, slightly dizzy from the rush of alcohol, the entire glass was empty and Thomas smacked it back down on the bar with a pursed grin._ _

__“Another, please.” He said, politely. De Burg filled it up at once, amused._ _

__“Ye-e-es!” Tom screeched, banging his fist wildly upon the bar. Clearly watching Thomas drink was his best form of entertainment._ _

__

__There were many things to do around the bar, whether you wanted to throw darts, play cards, or dance a jig, but the greatest crowd seemed to have clustered in the back around a lone table where a truly enormous man sat offering up arm wrestling competitions to the crowd. If a man could beat him, he’d pay for their ale. If he beat them, they had to likewise pay up. Judging by the row of empty glasses at his feet, he’d obviously gone without a dent in his coin purse._ _

__Tom promptly dragged Thomas over to the man’s table, eager to see the whole affair in action._ _

__They watched man after man, purple in the face and straining, attempt to push the giant over. He grinned around a thick cigar in his mouth, newscap cocked back to keep sweat out of his face as he pushed man after man to the table. God it was a miracle he didn’t break anyone’s arm. By the time he was finished, the men were gasping for breath, bitterly pulling into their purses to hand over the shilling they were due._ _

__The man caught Tom’s eyes, and tipped his newscap as his competitor’s chair cleared again. An exhausted dock worker stumbled away, his arm hanging limply at his side like it was a cooked noodle._ _

__“Care for a go?” The man tempted them._ _

__“Yeah.”  
Bizarrely enough, Tom and Thomas had spoken in unison. The man grinned, suddenly seeing two more ales in his future. Tom turned to Thomas, practically pouting with his begging eyes. _ _

__“Me first.” Tom begged, pushing his nearly drained Beamish and Crawford into Thomas’ spare hand. Thomas took it at once, watching as Tom rolled up his sleeves and took the seat across from the behemoth to offer his hand in a shake. At once the crowd around them doubled as men lined up to see who would win. Tom or the reigning champion._ _

__“Alright then,” The man leaned heavily onto his tiny table, shaking Tom’s hand, “What’s your name.”_ _

__“Tom. You?”_ _

__“Harris.” The man said, tipping his newscap politely to Tom as he offered Tom his arm. Tom took it up at once, “First one to touch to the bottom loses, and puts down a shilling.”_ _

__“I accept.” Tom said. He rolled his neck on his shoulders, perhaps trying to loosen his muscles up._ _

__God help him, as much as Thomas adored the man he had a sinking feeling Tom was about to lose pitifully. He was much too heavy upon his arm, not taking a good stance on his chair. Harris had mastered this game to an art form, and despite his hulking muscles it wasn’t why he was winning. He was winning because he had good posture and knew how to hold his elbow at an angle._ _

__They began._ _

__The others cheered around them, Thomas offered Tom’s corner even as he held his nearly empty beer. Tom was slowly growing pink in the face, lips pursed and face straining as he wrestled to keep his arm up. Harris was very slowly winning, centimeter by centimeter forcing Tom down. Even to the very end, as it became abundantly clear that Tom was about to lose, Tom fought his corner and Thomas never stopped cheering his name. As Tom’s hand finally touched the wood, he let go of Harris’ meaty fists and both men sprang back from one another panting. Harris took off his newscap to wipe his brow properly as Tom shook out his paled hand. Harris leaned over to pick up his beer on the floor, draining it in a few gulps to put it next to his row of empty glasses. As promised, Tom dug out a shilling from his pocket, handing it over. Harris accepted, putting it into an already bulging vest pocket._ _

__“Jesus, man!” Tom declared loudly to the crowd, “What did your mother feed you?”_ _

__“She’s the one who taught me this game!” Harris joked. The whole crowd laughed, imagining a massive woman showing her infant son how to rule a bar with his fist._ _

__Tom staggered off his chair, slumping by his original post as he took his beer back from Thomas to pant into the wood._ _

__“Grip like a gun barrel!” He declared. Thomas smiled, offering Tom his own nearly finished beer._ _

__Tom looked slightly unsure as he took it._ _

__“Let me give it a go.” Thomas offered. He rolled up his own, knowing that his leather arm band would be incredibly obvious even as he took his seat across from Harris. Harris got one look at him and burst out laughing._ _

__“You?” Harris demanded, “Mate, I could snap you like a chicken! You’re a little English flower!”_ _

__Thomas shrugged, unfazed as beer coursed through his system. He tugged experimentally on his rolled up sleeve to make sure it would stay in place, squaring his elbow upon the table. Unlike the others who had hunched in their chair and kept their arm’s loose, Thomas sat stiff as a board and kept his arm to an angle._ _

__“Well then, it won’t hurt to test me now will it, Harris?” Thomas offered. Harris cocked a thick eyebrow, grumbling as he put his arm back on the table. He noticed Thomas’ leather wristband as he grabbed his hand._ _

__Tom was right, Harris grabbed like he was trying to squeeze the life out of a man… but that was all for show. The real strength was in his wrist and elbow. That was how the game was won._ _

__“Can you do this if you’re injured?” Harris asked, nodding to Thomas’ leather wrist band._ _

__“Don’t worry about it.” Was all Thomas had to say._ _

__“Good luck, dove!” Tom cheered from the side of the crowd. The men were shoulder to shoulder now, each laughing as they watched Harris and Thomas squaring off. It seemed they already chosen the winner in their minds._ _

__They would learn._ _

__The match started, and at once, Thomas pushed from his elbow, not his wrist. At first, they went back and forth, Harris’s eyes glistening with sweat and Thomas’ brow furrowed as he focused all his energy into his wrist. Instead of watching his hands he watched Harris’ posture. Every time Harris slumped, even if for just a minute, Thomas pushed hard._ _

__And by god if the odds didn’t begin to tip in his favor._ _

__The men around them were screaming, losing their senses as they observed Harris’ bulging arm start to slip towards his end of the table for the first time that whole night. Thomas paid them no mind, focused entirely on watching Harris’ shifting posture. He was trying valiantly to regain ground but Thomas would not slouch. A lifetime in service had taught him the value of sitting and standing straight. He was half a foot away from touching the table- two inches at most-!_ _

__“JESUS MARY AND JOSEPH!” Tom screamed out, staggered as Thomas slammed Harris’ hand onto the table._ _

__The whole bar was in an uproar as Harris jerked his hand away and gaped at his defeater. Thomas shrugged, smiling even as he took his rolled up shirt sleeve in hand and began to push it down back into place before it could crease. He button his cuff as men from all angles clapped him on the back. Tom was in the thick of it, slinging his arm around Thomas’ neck to hug him awkwardly from behind._ _

__“You see this?!” Tom demanded of the crowd, “You see this man!? Is he not brilliant.”_ _

__Thomas shook his head, chuckling softly as Harris slowly slid his shilling across the table. Thomas took it up at once, pocketing it. A beer and a profit, he’d done well for the night._ _

__“How did you do that?” Harris demanded._ _

__“It’s all the posture of your opponent.” Thomas offered, “I’m sure your mother must have mentioned that.”_ _

__“Yeah t’be fair-“ Harris muttered, looking away and stroking his jaw._ _

__Thomas abandoned his seat, offering it up for the next man who wanted to see if he could beat Harris too. Even as they walked away, Thomas heard the crowd jeer as Harris defeated yet another man with gusto. Clearly he wanted to regain his notoriety with a vengeance._ _

__

__They ended up taking on an abandoned booth in the back of the bar behind Harris’ crowd, eager to stay out of sight and trouble as they nibbled on fish and chips. Tom wasn’t truly hungry, but Thomas had missed out on his own dinner and ate with gusto as Tom had another stout. He was rosy cheeked, slightly drunk as he leaned into Thomas just out of sight of the rest of the bar. Underneath the table, Tom’s hand was on his thigh, stroking the muscle. If he dared to plunge left, his hand would be right over Thomas’ crotch._ _

__He wondered if Tom even cared at this point. He had to admit, the alcohol was making him feel quite relaxed. What did it matter if they sat next to each other— they were eating fish and chips for god’s sake. They were hardly snogging._ _

__Well, to be fair, they were talking their tongues off, but that’s what bars and ales were for damnit._ _

__“How did we both end up so lucky?” Tom wondered amused, as they spoke of their roles in family life. The second youngest of a farmer’s brood, Tom had been the laborer of many a field till he finally found passage to England._ _

__“Second oldest, second youngest-“ He gestured to himself and Tom, alcohol slurring his words, “That’s… that’s eerie.”_ _

__“It is! It’s very eerie!”_ _

__“Can you… remember their names?” Thomas slurred, glancing at Tom. My god what a handsome man he was. He could be in the pictures._ _

__“For shame, you!” Tom clicked his tongue, grabbing some of Thomas’ chips and shoveling them into his open mouth, “Oldest to youngest: Mary, Kieran— he came to the abbey you remember-?”_ _

__“I remember.” Thomas cut across; Kieran had been rather short and stout too, with that silly mustache._ _

__“Where was I- Mary Kieran, Afric, Colleen….uh…”_ _

__“Aha!” Thomas cackled, smacking his hand on the table._ _

__“Give me time, love!” Tom begged, tugging at his hair as if it would help him think better._ _

__“No!” Thomas grinned as he finished off the last of his fish and sucked of greasy fingers, “No more time for you.”_ _

__“Ealga!” He cried out the name, “Me, and of course the baby Deirdre who was so named because she had a horrible bout of colic and screamed for months.”_ _

___“Very good.” Thomas said, pausing to take a long sip of beer. Credit should be given where credit was due. Tom was to be given credit for being handsome and…  
Um..  
… Smart? Was that what he was? Yes. Very smart. Handsome and smart. He should be given a diploma is handsomeness and smartness. _

__“That’s why Kieran came t’the abbey.” Tom slurred. He threw an arm around Thomas’ shoulder, eager to get more comfortable as he continued to eat Thomas’ chips. If it were anyone else he’d be right annoyed but Tom could have as many chips as he wanted. Such was the prize for being handsome and lovely and smart and funny and-… whatever else Tom was. “He and I were always close. We were the only boys. What about your brood?”_ _

__Thomas chuckled, slightly nervous, unwilling to think about his siblings when he was drunk. He’d just end up getting soppy._ _

__“Can’t remember them, aha!” Tom cackled._ _

__“I can…” Thomas corrected him, amazed at how proper he could make his words sound when he was utterly sloshed, “I can remember them. I just uh… I don’t like to talk about my family when m’drinkin-“_ _

__Tom chewed on his lip, nodding as he took a sip of beer. Maybe he could understand._ _

__“Did your family love you?” Thomas asked, suddenly wanting to know more about Tom’s childhood. Maybe it had been happy, like a fairy tale._ _

__“Course.” Tom assured him, setting his beer down. He belched softly, grabbing a few more of Thomas’ chips. “M’father and m’grandfather were both very fond of me and my brother. They’d take us out the fields working and keep us there all day. My uncles worked on cars in the village-“ Tom grinned lazily, “that’s why I loved cars so much. It kept me from shoveling cow shit.”_ _

__They snickered to one another, amused._ _

__“Did your mother pray?” Thomas asked, suddenly thinking of how devout his mother had been. Always crossing herself. Always blessing her children even when she cursed their existence._ _

__“Oh, every night.” Tom rolled his eyes, “She was a god fearin’ woman to the end. She died of pneumonia the year before I arrived at the abbey… that’s why I left Ireland actually.” Tom frowned, consumed by melancholy memories, “I needed time t’heal on me own. How about your mother? She pray?”_ _

__Thomas nodded. He didn’t want to talk about his mother. Not when she’d killed herself because of him._ _

__“Me mam had one she used everyday, and then one she used in mass-“_ _

__“Mine had one she used in times of sickness.” Thomas agreed. Maybe all mothers were this way. Thomas suddenly wondered if Lady Grantham prayed. If Mrs. Hughes prayed._ _

__“What did she say?”_ _

__“She just repeated our names like a mantra: Margret, Thomas, Daniel, Ruth, Mildred, Florence, Alice… she said our names over and over again in the dark. As I got older though, her prayer changed.”_ _

__“Yeah?” Tom was intrigued, He licked salt from his fingers, no longer able to eat any more chips. Thomas picked up what few crumbs remained, nibbling on them._ _

__“God protect my girls and keep Danny strong.” Thomas repeated his mother’s old prayer. Tom faltered, glancing at Thomas warily, “I uh…” Thomas coughed, “I was the family scapegoat y’see.” He looked down sniffing. “What did your mother look like, can you remember?”_ _

__He didn’t want to think about his mother._ _

__“She had gray hair even in her early thirties.” Tom said, shrugging, “In a bun at the back of her head. Her hair was really thick so her bun was pretty large. And then she had these beautiful brown eyes, and a warm smile. She always used to say ‘Stomp your boots’ when we’d come home… otherwise we’d track mud in.” Tom grinned, starting to laugh, “But see, as a wedding present m’father had gotten her a bird. And it new how to talk. It was a crow, a big black ugly thing with a fearsome beak but my mother had had it from a chick so it adored her… and it learned how to say full sentences.”_ _

__“Really?” Thomas was amazed by this. What an interesting wedding present!_ _

__“Yeah- so in the middle of supper you’d hear him squawk ‘stomp your boots’ and ‘Don’t forget your hat, Fergie’.”_ _

__“Uh…” Thomas chuckled, what an odd thing to say._ _

__“M’father’s name was Fergus.” Tom explained, “Me mam called him ‘Fergie’ when they were sweet with each other. He was always leavin’ his hat around the house when he went to work. She had to run after him to make sure he had it… My dad hated that damn bird.” Tom burst out laughing._ _

__“He hated it so much!” Tom cackled at the fond memory, “It bit him once and he threatened to roast it. Then mam got mad at him for threatening her ‘baby’ and made him sleep in the barn. And the bird got to sleep in the bedroom!”_ _

__Thomas started giggling. Soon he couldn’t stop, imagining a fat smug crow riding Mrs. Branson’s shoulder warbling in her ear only to bite her husband in cheek._ _

__“And as he was leaving-“ Tom could barely speak he was laughing so hard- “As he was leaving for the barn, it chirped-“_ _

__“Don’t forget your hat, Fergie!” Thomas supplied. The pair of them howled with laughter. Such spite! Such malice! Such scorn- only a bird could be capable of it. A very well fed, cheeky bird._ _

__“God-“ Tom wiped at the corners of his eyes grinning blissfully, “Da’ hated that bird. Did your Da’ hate an animal-?”_ _

__“Me.” Thomas said without thinking. Tom froze, the smile dropping from his face at once._ _

__Realizing what he just said, Thomas busied himself with a sip of his ale. Tom squeezed his shoulder, massaging the back of his shoulders gently._ _

__“You’re not an animal.” Tom corrected him. Thomas shrugged but Tom just squeezed his shoulder harder. “No, listen to me… you’re not.”_ _

__“I know.” Thomas said softly, finishing his ale. “I know I’m not… S’just that when you’re told something by your parents you tend to believe it.”_ _

__“Well fuck em.” Tom snapped, suddenly quite bitter. He finished his ale, smacking the emptied glass onto their table. “We make better father’s anyway!”_ _

__“Oh yes.” Thomas agreed smugly. Yes, they were much better fathers._ _

__“We handled Sybbie’s fever!” Tom declared, ticking off their good deeds with his fingers._ _

__“We did!” Thomas agreed with gusto, “And you handled Larry Gray-“_ _

__“And you handled that medieval nanny, so there’s nothing we can’t top!” Tom hugged him closer, letting his hand fall from Thomas’ shoulder down his back so that he was suddenly cupping his waist. He turned his nose to Thomas’ ear, his breath tickling the skin at the back of Thomas’ neck._ _

__“Tom… be careful.” Thomas murmured softly, “Th’beers makin’ you sloppy.”_ _

__“We’re in a corner. No one’s paying attention.” Tom assured him; indeed they were tucked quite privately into a corner. Everyone seemed to be taking up interest in music, or Harris, or the ales on tap. No one seemed to realize they were hiding in plain sight._ _

__“An’ besides.” Tom whispered drunkly, “I love it when you blush.”_ _

__Thomas grinned down at the table, unable to keep the red flush from his cheeks._ _

__

__Yet even as they sat in the corner, minding their own business, a well known face stepped into The Näive Bar._ _

__Eager for an ale with old school chums, Henry Talbot looked about intrigued as he allowed his companions to order beer on tap. He carefully scooted around the bar, looking for an empty table though he’d be hard pressed to find out at this rate. My god the place was packed-!_ _

__He saw a lone booth in the far corner of the bar, seemingly un occupied, and made a beeline for it. Yet he stopped as the gloom thinned, smoke from cigars and drunken companions washing aside to reveal, of all people, Tom Branson tucked into the back corner of the booth with his arm around Thomas Barrow._ _

__“Henry?” one of his companions called out to him from the bar, looking for his order. Henry held up a hand._ _

__“Just a moment, lads.” Henry said, looking back around, eyes narrowed._ _

__Tom was whispering something in Barrow’s ear, and whatever it was it was making Barrow smile in a most unbecoming way. He was practically blushing, though maybe that was because of the heat of the bar… it was rather hot in here._ _

__But then Tom leaned in, and, for whatever reason, drunkenly kissed Barrow just beneath his ear._ _

__Henry froze at the offending sight._ _

__

__“Henry?”_ _

__Henry jumped, shocked to be approached from behind in his daze. He looked around to see that it was only one of his school chums, offering him a Beamish and Crawford. He declined it, suddenly feeling oddly sober. It was hardly a good thing to be in a bar._ _

__“I’m sorry lads.” Henry paused, coughing as he touched his throat. He suddenly felt rather unwell. “I’m feeling rather poorly all of a sudden. I think I need to go.”_ _

__“But Henry, we just got here!” His chums were urging. Henry paid no mind to it, urging his way back through the crowd and out the door._ _

__“Henry!” They called out after him._ _

__Henry did not stop, did not look around. He suddenly wanted to be in the clear air. To be away from the crowd to process what he’d just seen._ _

__Tom had been drunk. Tom didn’t know what he was doing. Surely that was the only explanation. It had been an accident, nothing more, and because of Barrow’s… inclination… Tom had forgotten himself. Had probably been only joking._ _

__But what kind of joke constituted a man kissing another man upon the neck? As liberal as even Henry was, he didn’t know if his love for a good time stretched quite that far._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gaelic Translations: 
> 
> _**”There is no feast like a roast and no torment like a marriage.”_  
>  _** “I love you.”_  
>  _** “You are my heart.”_


	14. It's Coming Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shit hits the fan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We've come to a pivotal chapter in the fanfiction. I hope everyone continues to enjoy this story as we start moving through the obvious changes. 
> 
> On another note, I said this before in the last chapter but apparently I'm going to have to say it again: **Stop leaving rude comments to one another. I don't know if you forgot this or not but I get an email every time someone leaves a review. I've had to be the unwilling witness to every time someone adds another snipping comment. If it doesn't stop I will delete the comments. End of story.**

Alright, so maybe he shouldn’t have had that Irish stout. 

Thomas nursed a private hangover even as Tom blearily shoveled eggs into his mouth at a criminally slow pace. Lady Mary usually took breakfast in bed, but had come down today in an attempt to enjoy more time with the only other occupants in the house. Poor Sybbie was very confused as to why her father looked paler than the tablecloth, and cocked her head from left to right as Tom groaned and drank yet another glass of water. 

Lucky bastard. Thomas had eaten a shocking five pieces of toast this morning but he doubted it’d done any good. What had his father done to cure a hangover? 

… Besides beat him, of course. 

Across from Tom, Mr. Talbot sat unusually silent. For the most part he often spent his mornings talking- he like Mr. Moseley was a morning person and unafraid to show it. Today however he seemed tense and kept glancing from Lady Mary to Tom as if he somehow had bad news to bear. Mr. Talbot stared Lady Mary down, lips pursed. Lady Mary took the initiative, whatever it was. 

“Barrow.” Lady Mary spoke up. Thomas straightened imperceptibly to attention, eyes twitching slightly at the corners as his head pounded furiously, “Would you mind dreadfully if you helped me reorganize Lady Sybil’s old room today? I want to fashion it into a room for Sybbie when she’s older. Nanny Armstrong feels she’s old enough to leave the nursery.” 

Why was that worthy of such a silent stare? It didn’t add up. 

“That’d be nice.” Tom mumbled, a lazy smile in on his face even though his voice was scratchy. 

Yes, Sybbie was getting old enough. She certainly ought to have her independence. But why were Mr. Talbot and Lady Mary so worried about it. 

“Certainly, M’lady.” Thomas said, wondering if one could overdose on Beecham’s.   
Sybbie looked gleeful, practically bouncing atop her many Shakespeare tomes. 

 

Lady Mary was trying to smile, but it was coming off as more of a tired smirk. She looked like much was on her mind, as she glanced from Tom (who was on death’s door) to Thomas (who was death’s footman and answering the door). Maybe she thought something was catching. 

 

Yet as Thomas took yet another Beechams and wandered upstairs to start work cleaning and moving furniture in Lady Sybil’s old room, Lady Mary still seemed pre occupied. She sat upon Lady Sybil’s old fainting couch, directing all the movement as Thomas and Andy ferried furniture from one side of the room to the next. Where ever they moved, a maid cleaned, able to get cobwebs out from underneath a dresser where before they had been blocked. By the time that the furniture was just the way Lady Mary wanted, it was almost time for lunch. Thomas bade Andy to return downstairs, taking several of the maids with him as Lady Mary began to list off things that she thought could be replaced in lieu of a younger occupant. Par example, the curtains needed to be replaced (they were growing old) and the bed could do with a fresh coverlet. Thomas scribbled everything everything down on a small note pad, unable to help but catch how (despite her ordering and lounging) Lady Mary looked noticeably tense. 

“I want my bed here!” Sybbie commanded, pointing to the far corner of the room near the windows where the dresser currently stood, “And my dresser here-!” She pointed to where the bed sat, “And my pony here-!” She pointed to the far corner of the room. “And my dolls here-!” The window shelf, of course. 

“Sybbie,” Thomas murmured, writing everything down, “Do you really need your rocking horse?” 

“Yes!” She urged, affronted he’d even ask. She put her hands on her hips, “How else will I ride? George has you, I have Siobhan!” 

Once again, Thomas could not deny the logic of a six year old. 

“As you wish, darling.” Thomas muttered, jotting the note down on his pad, “AS you wish.” 

“Sybbie darling-“ Lady Mary gestured to the door, “A new frock arrived for you this morning. Why don’t you go try it on and see if you can wear it for dinner?” 

“Oh, goody gumdrops!” Sybbie was gleeful, bouncing on her heels so that the white ribbon in her hair jangled in the air, “A new frock!” She fled for the door as if chased by jackals, forgetting to close the door as she ran out. In her haste, her white ribbon slipped from her hair, and Thomas plucked it up from the floor to give it to her later. 

“You’ve made her very happy, M’lady.” Thomas chortled, pocketing his note pad. Lady Mary gave him a small if tense smile. 

“Have I?” Lady Mary smirked, “It wasn’t my doing.” She sat up upon the fainting couch, patting the seat beside her as she pursed her lips in intense though, “Barrow-“ She rose, her tone ominous, “Mr. Talbot went out last night for a drink with some old Eaton chums…. he happened to mention upon arriving home that he saw you in a Näive bar with Mr. Branson. That your behavior was most… eccentric.” 

Thomas froze, the blood draining from his face. 

Stupid, stupid, _stupid!_

He’d known it was foolish to go out, to act wildly. The beer had gotten to his head, the sequestered corner of the bar had made him momentarily feel safe- but there was no where in the world that was safe for men like him. He’d been taken in for a fool, and now Mr. Talbot had seen- but what had he seen exactly? Had he seen them drinking? Had he seen them flirting? 

…Had he seen them kissing? 

“…I…” Thomas flustered, trying to keep a cool facade even as his heart began to race. Lady Mary for her part never wavered from wary silence. “De he? I apologize M’lady.” 

Thomas turned away, walking over to the curtains which he began to pull down to fold over his arm. He would take them to the poor today, and order for new ones. The sooner the better. As dust filtered down from the air, Thomas’ heart pounded wildly in his chest. Corner to corner- tuck and tuck. 

He prayed internally for mercy. To dodge the bullet yet again. 

“He said Mr. Branson was most entertained.” Lady Mary mused. She laced her arms over her knees, still glaring softly at Thomas. Thomas wondered if he was visibly sweating. 

“Mr. Branson enjoyed having an Irish bar close to home, M’lady.” Thomas mumbled, excuses sticking in his throat. He suddenly wished a room would catch on fire, or Henry Talbot would choke on blood from an ulcer, anything to distract Lady Mary from her dangerous inquisition. 

“i should imagine whispering with a handsome young man was most enjoyable too.” Lady Mary said, scathingly. 

“Did he?” Thomas’ hands shook against the dusty curtains, “Goodness, I’m quite jealous.” 

“Funny.” Lady Mary warned, “Mr. Talbot seemed to insist he was whispering to you-“ 

“I’m sure he was just being polite, M’lady.” 

“A bit too polite-“ 

“Well, there are worse things to be accused of, M’lady. But I must carry on. I need to pull luncheon together. If there’s anything else you need-“ 

But Lady Mary rose from the sofa, waspish words upon her sharp tongue, “I need only the safety and security of my family, Mr. Barrow.” Her tone was clear, Thomas was a threat in her eyes, “The understanding from those that serve us… that they serve us.” she pointed to her breast proudly. 

Ice slid into Thomas’ stomach, making his whole body clench in guilt. He and Lady Mary stood eye to eye, each as unwavering as the next. 

“The Bates understand that, the Carson’s understand that, I think now that Daisy and Mrs. Patmore understand that. But do you? … I’m unsure.” She paused, musing to herself more than to Thomas, “Sometimes I think you do. Sometimes I just don’t know. That’s the great mystery of you, Thomas Barrow. Whose side are you on?” 

Thomas swallowed around a knot in his throat, each word leaving his mouth as carefully as the last, “I… I serve this family, M’lady. No other.” 

“Then who is Mr. Branson seeing?” Lady Mary demanded, her tone taking a sharp quality, “If you serve me then you will tell me.” 

But Thomas couldn’t tell her, not without damning himself. Panicking, he flustered, “I- I cannot say M’lady. Mr. Branson has bade me not to-“ 

“I am the eldest daughter of the Lord of Grantham.” Lady Mary snapped, waving her title like some would a flag of war; Thomas had known German snipers with less vigor, “Mr. Branson is the adopted son. I outrank him, though I don’t like to wave it around. I demand you tell me.” 

Thomas backed up, inching closer towards the door. Somehow in his panicked state he reasoned that if he just got over the threshold and into the hallway he would be able to escape. But Lady Mary followed him step for step, prowling like a panther. 

“I- I cannot say, M’lady. Please don’t make me say.” he begged, hoping she would take mercy. 

But Lady Mary did not know the definition of mercy. 

“Why are you so afraid?” She demanded, confused to find him visibly shaken over what must have seemed like a simple request, “You look like you’re about to be shot for treason.” 

“Maybe I am-“ It slipped out, and was without rank or respect. Yet where Lady Grantham or Mr. Carson might have chided him for impertinence Lady Mary merely narrowed her eyes noting the true fear in his voice. It intrigued her more than the lack of “My Lady” ever could. 

“Who is this woman?” She demanded, now affronted by his fear, “Tell me, I refuse to take no for an answer.” 

Thomas clutched to his folded curtains like a shield, finally stepping over the threshold. “Forgive me, M’lady.” Thomas begged. “I… I cannot say. Forgive me.” 

“Why can’t you say?” Lady Mary demanded even as he tried to slip away. “Are you bade not to? Or are you merely afraid of what I will say?” 

Thomas clenched his jaw, unable to deny the truth in her words. “Both” was all he could stutter out. 

Lady Mary drew back a little, growing gray with ominous warning. She couldn’t have guessed, couldn’t have known, but it seemed now that she understood there was something much more grave at stake than a normal game of courtship. 

Finally able to slip away, Thomas turned and fled down the hallway. 

He didn’t see Sybbie, tucked to the wall as he bowled past, clutching at her hair where her white bow had once been. Maybe she’d come back to get it. Maybe she’d heard everything. Either way Thomas would never know. He was past the green baize door before either Lady Mary or Sybbie could call out to him. He needed sanctuary and silence. 

And to get rid of these damn curtains. 

 

~*~ 

Exhausted from the morning’s rocky start, Tom had walked down to the village to tend to some sorting at his estate office. Spring was a busy time for local farmers and paperwork had begun to pile up needed his signature. Tom sipped mildly on a cooling cup of tea, signing one form after the other until his hand began to ache. He could not help but think of Thomas as he worked, his lips somehow still hot from Thomas’ neck the night before. 

He’d be lying if he’d tried to claim that his thoughts had been pure. Watching Thomas gulp down Stout had been like an aphrodisiac and seeing him beat Harris had been absolutely no help at all. As they’d sat in that corner both, Tom had envisioned Thomas naked, had imagined how his muscles would bulge and contort to keep up with the pace if a man were to make love to him. Tom wanted to see him sweat- wanted to see his creamy skin turn the slightest pink. Wanted to behold Thomas begging from above or below as an aroma of lust consumed him. He was always so poised, so well put together- what would it take to make Thomas scream like he’d done that one time while riding shotgun with Henry to York? 

Tom imagined his hands forcing Thomas to an orgasm, imagined Thomas trying to wriggle away, trying to remain stoic and unfazed. 

But Tom would have the final say, and by the end of it Thomas would be screaming at the top of his lungs in ecstasy. 

A knock at his door rattled him from his fantasy, and Tom hastily jerked back into reality as, of all people, Mary opened his door. In a dark red cloche and tawny coat, she’d clearly come from the house and gave him a small smile as she observed him sitting at his desk. Tom scooted a bit up to his desk to hide obvious problems below deck. Damnit he shouldn’t have been thinking about Thomas in public- not when it gave him a raging erection. 

“Roll out the red carpet-“ Tom joked, relaxing a bit in his chair, “It’s the Queen of England.” 

Mary smirked. 

“I’m glad to hear you’re in a better mood, though I have to wonder why.” Mary took a seat opposite Tom on the other side of his desk, crossing her legs carefully as habit had taught her to do. 

“The sun is shining, there’s air in my lungs-“ Tom shrugged. Surely one didn’t need a reason to be happy. 

“And a new Irish pub in York.” 

But that was damn good reason enough, “Ah! You heard!” Tom sat back up in his chair, beaming. Mary was hardly a pub girl, but maybe he could get her to come along for another visit. 

“Henry heard.” Mary corrected her. Now that made more sense, “He went there last night.” 

Last night? 

Tom cocked an eyebrow, wondering what time Henry had gone and if they’d unexpectedly bumped into one another. It didn’t seem possible- Henry hadn’t stopped in to say hello at their corner booth. When had he come? “Really? What time?” 

“A little bit after you arrived.” Mary alluded, her tone still a loaded question. 

“He saw me there?” Tom felt slightly put out, “Why didn’t he say hello?” They could have all had an ale together, and challenged Harris. Tom would have liked to see Henry give it a go, particularly after Thomas had won. 

“He said you were a bit occupied with Barrow.” Mary explained. But that didn’t make any sense- so they’d been holding their own at a corner in the bar. Why not join? Henry liked Thomas, or so Tom had imagined. Was he really that off put about having a drink with him just because he was the Butler? That was rather snobbish. 

“Oh.” Tom grimaced, unhappy, “We were just having a chat. He could have come over- he should have!” Tom urged, “I’d have liked to share a pint! There was this bloke named Harris-”

“He said you were much more interested in sharing one with Barrow.” Mary said. Once again, her tone was dark. 

Tom snorted, “Well I think he deserves one, don’t you?” 

“He deserves something.” Mary rolled her eyes. Tom didn’t know what to make of that. It made his stomach squirm uneasily. “Tom, I don’t mean to alarm you-“ She sat up a little better in her chair, “But you are aware that Barrow is… of a different persuasion.” 

Seriously? 

Tom regarded her with dry derision. Where was this conversation headed exactly, “I think you’d have to be blind not to notice-“ but that damned dead Lieutenant Edward Courtenay had been blind and still fancied Thomas, so, “And then some.” 

“Then do you really think you should be sharing a pint with him?” Mary asked, cautiously. Insulted, Tom scoffed. He certainly didn’t have to worry about sporting an erection now. Mary had turn his mood as sour as a lemon. He rose, grabbing some sorted papers to stuff them in his sorting drawer. 

“Really, Mary.” Tom snapped, angry, “I expected better of you-“ 

“Oh don’t be like that!” She chided him, he glanced around to find her just as irritated, “I don’t mean that no one should share a pint with him ever- I hope he finds a nice, suitable, working man- but I worry that he might grow a little too…. attached to you if you keep carrying on.” 

“Is that a bad thing?” Tom countered, crossing his arms over his chest. Mary weighed the options before her, hands rolling int he air. 

“It is if you consider that he might be developing a- I don’t know-“ she fished for the right word, “A crush on you.” 

But they were far past crushes. Tom didn’t have an attachment to Thomas- he was devoted to Thomas. Utterly absorbed in a way that he hadn’t been since Sybil Crawley had walked the Earth. As he’d longed to follow her so too did he now long to follow Thomas. To be his shield and his strength, to care for him and love him— to be taught by his incredible wisdom. Those soft blue eyes had seen the world three times over. Tom wanted to know it a fourth. 

“Tom.” Mary’s tone had grown soft at his stony silence, “I only want what’s best for you and the family. I don’t claim to know your preferences, but I’m pretty certain they’re not Barrows.” She snorted as if this were funny to imagine. 

Tom did not look at her, carefully sorting his drawer. He was biding his time now, really he ought to carry on signing papers. Bitter Tom closed his drawer and returned to his desk to pluck back up his pen. “Why don’t you let me worry about Barrow. I’ll handle the rest.” 

“I would if I knew for certain that you would treat this subject with sensitivity.” Mary pursed her thin lips, unsure, “I know you like to keep the peace, but at times it’s better to make your stance clear.” 

“I quite agree.” Tom snapped. He was tired of this subject, but mercifully knew just how to put a girl like Mary off, “I’m going for a bite at the pub, would you like to join?” 

The fact of the matter was that Tom knew for a fact that Mary would not want to go. That Mary did not enjoy pubs, particularly the Grantham Arms, and would instead want to go back to the house for luncheon. It was the perfect avenue out and Tom took full advantage of it. 

“No, I must get on.” Mary rose from her seat, carefully arranging her cloche upon her hair, “Barrow said he’d have luncheon ready-“ 

“Mary-“ Tom rose up, a sudden wave of defense causing him to speak out, “Don’t bother Barrow about this. He’s had enough on his plate to last a lifetime, particularly after last summer.” 

Mary’s smile grew sad. She tipped her head in silent agreement. “I agree. I only want what’s best, even for him.” 

“So do I.” They shared a soft kiss, cheek to cheek- the sort of thing a brother and sister might enjoy. “I’ll see you at home tonight.” 

 

The rest of the day found Tom nursing his hangover till it vanished entirely sometime around six. Eager to get on back to the house, Tom packed up his things and drove home, thinking on Mary’s words and what her reaction might be when Tom finally revealed the full truth to her. She’d be angry, confused too, but she’d come to see in time that it was all done in love. That nothing was being perpetrated through spite or cruelty. All Tom wanted was to be happy, was for everyone to be happy. How could Mary disagree with that? How could anyone disagree with that? 

He just had to wait till Robert was home so that things didn’t blow out of proportion. He’d have to talk to Robert first- take things step by step- Tom knew that he had quite an uphill challenge ahead of him… but after coming out with Sybil to her entire family all at once he wasn’t afraid. Love was in the right, hate was in the wrong. No matter how it all went down in the end, good would prevail. 

When he returned home and changed for dinner, he caught sight of Thomas and Andy sprucing up the dining hall. There was no time for talking, no time for smiles or shared love- Tom had to change into white tie quickly to be ready for pre-dinner cocktails and even then he just barely made it in time. Sybbie was wearing a new frock of mint green with lace at the throat- something the Dowager had apparently ordered in fashion from a London magazine. She didn’t seem too happy about it, constantly itching at her throat where the lace clung. She gazed across the table at Tom pitifully, whimpering softly as she silently protested to change mid-meal. Tom shook his head, and Sybbie bitterly put her hands back down in her lap, irritated at having being duped into thinking her new frock would be sublime. Her comfort came from Thomas who, like any good butler, catered to her needs. Tom watched as Thomas passed behind Sybbie while Henry and Mary discussed London gossip and upcoming weddings of old friends. Thomas bent low, listening intently as Sybbie complained softly in his ear. As he straightened back up, wine decanter in hand, Thomas ever so carefully let his hand drift to the back of Sybbie’s neck. 

Tom was the only one watching, and therefor the sole viewer of Sybbie’s pleasured smile as Thomas unbuttoned the very top clip of her lace collar so that it no longer strained at the throat. No one caught it- Mary and Henry were too busy swapping details about a London wedding they’d be attending in May. Tom could not keep from grinning as Thomas strode away from Sybbie to continue serving refills of white wine. As he came around the table to Tom’s side, he bent low to refill Tom’s glass to murmur in his ear. 

“She’ll want a different frock.” Thomas whispered. “It looks like something the Dowager would wear.” 

“The Dowager ordered it.” Tom whispered back. Thomas rolled his eyes, grumbling to himself. 

Mary looked up and caught them whispering. Her smile faltered slightly. Tom bristled, straightening in his seat as he took a quick sip of his wine. 

“So Tom,” Mary changed topics with grace, “Any new letters from the mysterious Mary Malone?” 

“I thought you might ask.” Tom mused, because when had Mary never not been nosy? “As it so happens, I spoke with them and we’ve decided to pursue our happiness together. And I haven’t regretted it since.” He toasted himself for his cleverness and his love for Thomas. Thomas was now back around the table behind Sybbie to serve her a second helping of peas. He caught Tom’s eyes from across the table and smiled gently. 

“Well, this is marvelous news!” Mary beamed, looking genuinely happy, “Now you have to tell us more.” 

“Very well.” Tom decided, knowing that he could easily banter and keep Mary at bay. At least it would sate her ever growing curiosity until Robert arrived back home, “Ask your questions.” 

“A name would be nice.” Henry joked, chewing carefully on his roasted rabbit. 

“I’m afraid I can’t give you that.” Tom shook his head. No a name would not be forthcoming, “Not yet. Everything else, yes.” 

“Very well.” Mary rolled her eyes, getting tired of Tom's games. “Where did you meet?” 

“We used to work together.” Tom said. 

“Is she of the noble class or-?” Henry wondered, tone drifting off as he took a slow sip of white wine. 

“Working class.” Tom assured them. No, falling in love with one noble was enough for a lifetime, thanks. 

“Does she know about Sybbie?” Henry asked, slightly worried. 

Across the table, Thomas was watching over Sybbie as she tried to puncture her peas with a fork. The damn things kept skittering away from her but Thomas was there to help her hold her fork just so. A guardian angel. 

“Oh, they adore Sybbie.” Tom smiled lovingly. From across the table, Sybbie’s eyes sparkled with delight. Tom wondered what she would say when she learned the love of Tom’s life was none other than her beloved Barrow. George would have a fit with jealousy, he was sure. He despised having to share Thomas in any way shape or form. 

“Well that’s always important.” Mary said softly. At this, she shared a loving glance with Henry who had always been good to George even though he wasn’t Henry’s son. It was important, Tom agreed, and silently toasted Henry who looked chuffed as he continued on his rabbit. 

“What is she like?” Henry asked, curious, “Is she an intellectual?” 

“Oh quite.” Tom agreed, for if there was ever a word to describe Thomas it would be that. “An abstract thinker, if you will. They adore politics and controversial topics.” 

“A match made in heaven, I see.” 

“Very charming, comedic too. Has a bit of a snark.” Tom added. Across the table, Thomas cocked an eyebrow at the word ‘snark’. Tom grinned around the lip of his wine glass. 

“Snark?” Mary repeated, curious. 

“Oh a very sharp tongue.” Tom chuckled, Thomas rolled his eyes, still standing behind Sybbie, “But it can be soothed!” 

“And how do you sooth it?” Henry teased, taking the bait. 

“Well…” that was a very good question. How did one sooth Thomas? Curious to see what Tom’s answer would be, Thomas glared at him across the table. 

_Try me_ , he seemed to be daring. _Try to sooth me, Danny boy_. 

“They’ve had a very hard life, unfortunately.” Tom admitted, “All it really takes is a bit of love, understanding… and Irish charm.” 

“Of which you’ve got buckets.” Mary added. Tom shrugged merrily. 

“And cigarettes!” 

Such an admission was shocking from Sybbie who, unless Tom was mistaken, knew absolutely nothing. He caught his daughter’s eye across the table, noting that she seemed to realize she’d made a mistake. She put her hands over her mouth, glancing from her father to her aunt, both of whom were gazing at her stiffly. 

Did Sybbie know?   
Tom caught Thomas’ eye just behind Sybbie. He was staring in terror at the back of her head, somehow reasoning that she might spill the beans at any moment. 

“Sybbie.” Mary turned a bit in her chair to catch her niece’s eye, “Do you know who it is?” 

“Sybbie-“ Tom warned across the table. 

“Oh come now, Tom.” Henry urged, “She’s just a child.” 

Tom clenched his jaw tight, heart pounding in his chest as he caught his daughter’s eyes. Sybbie seemed to realize that she couldn’t say, that (whatever her suspicions were) she’d have to keep very quiet. 

“… Only…” Sybbie mumbled. “I heard Daddy speaking about it once.” 

“So a clue has slipped.” Mary said, even as Tom wracked his brains for when on earth Sybbie would have ever heard him say such a thing. To his memory, she hadn’t heard anything about Thomas. Could that mean she was lying to cover for him, that she knew something was at stake and was keeping silent from her aunt? Behind her, Thomas was visibly sweating. His decanter was almost shaking in his hands. “She smokes… she’s an intellectual… she’s working class….” 

Mary snapped her fingers, eyes sparking with delight at her own cleverness, “I’ve got it! It’s Laura Edmunds, Edith’s editor!” 

Tom shook his head, “A very good guess though.” He added, for Laura herself had tried to flirt with Tom over New Years. Mary was crestfallen. 

“My god what a riddle.” She muttered irritably. “Tom, why won’t you just tell me who she is?” 

“It’s just not time.” Tom tried to appease her with gentle tones. 

“Why not?” 

“I want Robert to return home, first.” 

“So it’s that serious?” Mary was incredulous at the concept. Even Henry looked concerned. 

“It is.” Tom would say no more, taking a small sip of his draining wine glass. Thomas slowly walked around the table, wine decanter in hand. He poured Tom a refill, saying nothing at Tom’s shoulder. 

“You can at least tell me-“ Mary tried, but Tom was getting damn annoyed at this point. Mary was so used to getting her own way that when someone told her ‘no’ she genuinely did not know what to do but keep asking. 

“Mary, don’t take it as an offense.” Tom urged, “It’s just that I’d rather wait for Robert if it’s all the same to you.” 

Mary glared at him over her wine glass, scowling. “You sound like we wont’ approve. Like you’d have to explain things.” 

“An explanation will be needed.” Tom would not hide from the facts. he took another sip of wine, “yes.” 

Mary was silent for a moment as Thomas brought out the next course of pudding and shaved ice. Despite the offering of desert, no one smiled. Even Sybbie was tense, barely touching her shaved ice where so often she would dig in with gusto. Tom kept catching her eye, wondering if she knew, if she’d seem something. It seemed impossible to him- they’d always been so careful. But children had a way of slipping out touch- of crawling into nooks and crannies where no one would ever suspect them. Tom had once been playing hide and seek with his siblings and seen his mother kissing his father passionately in the family barn. She’d gasped, her head thrown back as his father had groped her swollen breast, keeping her voice low even as she’d moaned. Tom had understood none of it, until he was much older- even then he’d never told his parents that he’d caught them mid-act. He had a feeling his mother would have died of shame. 

“Tom.” Mary spoke up, sounding tense once again. Tom caught her eye and was surprised to find her glaring at him over her cup of shaved ice, “I know you’re fond of Ms. Bunting… but she has no place in this house.” 

“What?” Tom was thrown so far through a loop that it took him a moment to realize Mary was speaking about Sarah Bunting, the young teacher he’d taken onto only to have his emotions slammed into the dirt when she’d insulted the entire family at their own table and caused Robert to have a small freak out. 

Well, small by some standards. 

“Oh- oh!” Tom waved his hands back and forth to negate the idea, “No… No, Mary no.” He assured her, “It’s not Ms. Bunting. I promise you, she’s not coming back. I don’t think she’d want to return to this house even if Robert himself blessed her to.” 

“Which he won’t.” Mary snapped, “The nerve of that woman.” 

“I don’t love her, Mary.” Tom said again, closing the discussion (he hoped) for good, “She’s not the one.” 

“Mm.” Mary still did not look satisfied. She indulged in a bite or two of shaved ice as Thomas filled their champagne flutes. Even Sybbie got a glass though her portion was much smaller than any of the adults. She nibbled on her sweet ice, keeping completely still just as she’d done during Larry Gray’s disastrous dinner. The parallels made Tom’s skin crawl. 

Mary was a good person, a kind woman- but she could also be just as vicious and hard as Larry Gray… whether or not she wanted to admit it. 

“I just feel that all this secrecy is a little over the top. Explain to me how it is that Barrow get’s to know and we don’t?” Mary spoke up again. Exhausted, Tom could not help but temporarily bury his face in his hands. What would he give to just go upstairs and call and end to this ridiculous dinner. 

“Mary, I told you.” Tom dropped his hands, snatching up his champagne flute. He downed it all at once, the alcohol burning his throat. “Leave Thomas out of this.” 

“But how did he get involved.” She demanded, “Did he see her by accident? Did he open the door to find her there? Anna told me the doorbell never rang- so how did he know this ‘Mary Malone’ was going to be on the threshold unless you told him and had him there waiting-“ 

Jesus Christ Tom was really starting to regret ever mentioning the name of Mary Malone. 

“Mary.” Tom snapped, growing slightly more tense than was slightly necessary. The last time he’d snapped at Mary in such a way, she’d shot off at the mouth and nearly ruined Edith’s life. “Enough.” 

A stiff silence fell across the dinner table. 

Slowly, nervously, Thomas refilled Tom’s champagne flute. He seemed to be making himself as inconspicuous as possible, pressing back against the serving station so that Mary couldn’t try and torment him anymore. 

“Do you know what I find interesting, Tom?” Mary snapped, a sudden vicious gleam in her eyes that had not been there before. 

“What, Mary.” Tom grumbled, sucking down his newly refilled champagne. He was going to have another hangover in the morning but who gave a good god damn. 

“All this time, when we’ve spoken on this mystery maiden… you’ve only ever said ‘they’ or ‘them’. Never ‘she’ or ‘her’.” Mary’s tone was turning icy, and it made the hairs on the back of Tom’s neck stand up, “Is it a woman or not?” 

“Mary.” Henry chided her. “Don’t be crass, of course it’s a woman.” 

“Well I don’t know who it is, do I!” Mary snapped, “Because Tom has decided I’m untrustworthy.” 

Tom rolled his eyes, thoroughly put off the rest of his dinner. 

“Let it go!” Tom cried out, urging for peace, “This isn’t up for discussion anymore! When Robert comes home, we’ll have a family discussion about it. Until then, it’s not going to be diced! Henry, back me up on this!” 

But Henry was staring his wife down, the pair of them swapping very intense looks that only a married couple could truly understand. 

“Tom…” Henry set down his spoon and shaved ice, pursing his lips as Mary continued to glare at him, “We’re only concerned about recent developments.” 

“Hey I’ve got a great idea.” Tom announced to the table at large, “Let’s not talk about this anymore, ever again!” He declared. Yet he knew that this wasn’t going to happen- Mary was going to chew him down for size and probably try to hound Thomas too. to diffuse the situation and the tension he’d just have to leave the table. So be it. 

“You know what.” Tom threw down his napkin, rising up. “I’m going to bed.” 

“Tom, don’t be like that.” Henry urged, now the one to beg for calm, “Let’s talk about cars, or anything else- and sod the rest-“ 

“No, I really am feeling a bit tuckered out. Goodnight.” 

Tom did not make for another attempt. He left the dining hall, pushing his chair back up to the table to save Thomas the work. As he opened the door to the main hall, he tugged at his white tie to undo the knot. He felt hot and stiff, like he needed to take a dip in a cool lake to get back to his senses. 

He left behind him a bitter Mary and a saddened Henry, both of whom were unable to explain to a confused Sybbie just why dinner had gone so poorly. 

“I don’t understand why he just won’t say!” Mary was incredibly flustered, almost frightened that someone so open and calm would now become closed off to her. Clearly Tom’s honesty had meant more to her than she’d ever alluded to. 

“It’s his business, and he doesn’t want to talk about it till Robert is home. End of subject.” Bitter at being denied good dinner conversation, Henry set down his napkin as well and finished off his glass of champagne. When Thomas made to refill it, Henry put his hand over the top of his glass. 

“And I suppose you couldn’t think to calm your fancy man down.” Mary bit out, unable to keep from lashing at Thomas in her hurt and confusion. 

“Mary.” Henry snapped. Mary fell silent again. 

Across the dinner table at the serving station, Andy stared at Thomas in mute shock. 

~*~

Exhausted from the blow-up of a dinner, Thomas trudged back downstairs and wrapped up the fine silver while Andy helped Gertie to wash up in the kitchen. He found himself desperately wondering how to sate Lady Mary’s burning curiosity before it turned to anger. How to keep a low profile until Lord Grantham returned— Tom kept saying that he wanted to speak to Lord Grantham, to have a family meeting, but this was a horrific idea. How could Thomas explain to him that trust and love would be deprived to them? How could Thomas convey that their net of security was nothing more than a mist? That as soon as Tom tried to press for help, the rug would be snatched out from underneath their feet. 

Troubled by these darkening thoughts, Thomas almost did not notice the group lingering in the kitchen as he passed by the bottom of the stairs. Their whispers caught him though, traveling to his ears like wind through leaves. He glanced back and noticed Mrs. Patmore bent in to hear the words of Anna and Andy both, who were clearly gossiping about the disastrous dinner with Thomas only four feet away. 

Oh no, no no no.   
There would be no gossiping about _him_ in the house. 

Heading into the kitchen, Thomas leaned against the doorframe and watched as Mrs. Patmore instantly backed away from Andy and Anna to rustle up a plate of biscuits. Suddenly without a venting partner, Anna turning left, then right, only to lean against the kitchen island disgruntled as Andy rubbed at the back of his curly hair and Daisy nervously made a pot of tea. At the sink, Gertie dried off her hands, finally finished washing the meagre porcelain and crystal from the night’s dinner. 

“All washed up?” Thomas asked, Gertie nodded. 

“Yes Mr. Barrow.” She said in a thick Scottish brogue. 

“Very well.” He jerked his head to the stairwell. “Head up early, you’ve earned it.” 

Delighted at being given an extra hour to herself, Gertie all but fled from the kitchen glistening in sweat. She’d no doubt spend the time to sleep, or maybe take a long bath. As she left, an odd tension filled the air only capable when children were away. Mrs. Patmore turned about, her lips pursed. 

“So.” She said in a scathing tone as if Thomas was the one to blame for the night’s fiascos. “Did dinner go well tonight?” 

“Very well, Mrs. Patmore.” Thomas refused to give into bait, accepting the cup of tea that Daisy poured for him, “Thank you.” He noted that Daisy seemed to be pleading with him, using her eyes to warn him that danger was afoot. His only companion in his secret, Daisy seemed to realize the grave danger Thomas was in from the argument tonight. He accepted the tea like an antidote, allowing the burn to sooth him even as the others glared at him. 

“Until the fight broke out.” Andy added. Fight? He thought that was a fight? What rubbish. 

“Thomas, what’s going on?” Anna demanded, “Why won’t Mr. Branson just say the name of the woman he’s seeing? Surely she can’t be all that bad-“ 

“Lying makes for poor pillows at night.” Mrs. PAtmore added wisely, “Why didn’t you just say you were meeting Mr. Branson at the pub in York instead of lying and telling me you were meeting a friend at the pub.” 

Now everyone was glaring at him again. 

“Lady Mary said Mr. Talbot saw you there last night with Mr. Branson. That you were acting oddly.” 

“Which isn’t out of character for you, but still.” 

Thomas refused to bend to Anna and Mrs. Patmore’s nagging, pursing his lips around the rim of his teacup. 

“Just tell us what’s going on, Mr. Barrow.” Andy beseeched, exhausted by the twists and turns of the night. Thomas glared at all three of them, taking another sip of tea. Daisy had poured her own cup and was keeping resolutely silent. 

“What I do is my own affair.” He warned Mrs. Patmore. She scoffed. 

“But you didn’t have to lie.” She snapped. 

“I’ll do as I please-“ 

“Oh, don’t start acting like that again!” She warned, her voice getting hotter, “I think we’ve had enough of that behavior to last a lifetime from you!” 

But before Thomas had been cruel for the sake of cruelty. Now Thomas was throwing a hard ball to protect Tom. It gave him an incredible edge, making him feel almost invincible as he leaned against the wall and continued sipping his cup of tea. 

“Mr. Branson’s business is not up for discussion.” Thomas warned them all. 

“Then how come you’re in the know?” Mrs. Patmore demanded, “Sneaking off with him to York and passing his notes about the house like a school girl-“ 

Once again, Thomas diffused the topic. “It’s not up for for discussion.” 

Mrs. Patmore snorted, tossing her dirty dish rag into the sink where it floated atop the water like a dead fish, “that’s not what Lady Mary said-“ 

“Well Lady Mary is wrong!” Thomas snapped. After having to deal with her rude badgering over dinner, Thomas was just about sick of hearing her name. His sharp tone caught several people off guard. Anna in particular was affronted. “She can’t have it all her own way. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to lock up.” 

He sat his teacup down with much more force than necessary. The ugly silence that followed his words was telling enough for how the staff disagreed with his actions. Only Daisy was on his side, he understood that sure enough, and her silent support was all that he needed. Thomas would do whatever it took to keep Tom safe. One day, inevitably, the truth would come out. Then, perhaps, the others would understand. But it was foolish to imagine they would be supportive or happy— at most, they’d merely accept why it was that Thomas had been so reluctant to speak on the obscure topic. 

That was the most he could hope for, and it made him bitter. 

 

Thomas saw both Daisy, Anna, and little William out the back door for the night, locking up behind them. He took no offense when Anna did not bid him goodnight, knowing she was angry at him for being rude against Lady Mary. As he locked the front door to the house, and turned out the lights, Thomas found himself looking up the gallery stairs and wondering about Tom. 

He needed to speak with him, to explain why talking to Lord Grantham was such an awful idea. He didn’t know what Tom would say, but Tom was living underneath a beautiful delusion if he imagined that Lord Grantham would be lenient or kind to them. 

An ugly weight in Thomas’ stomach made him feel queasy as he ascended the gallery stairs. The family was asleep for the night, no doubt Tom would be too. Thomas would knock gently upon his door, as softly as he dared. If Tom answered, he would speak to him. If not, Thomas would go to bed.

As he reached the top of the stairs, Thomas cautiously looked left and right, careful not to be seen lest Lady Mary be roaming the halls. But that was ridiculous- Lady Mary was in bed no doubt dreaming of learning Tom’s dirty little secret. Thomas had nothing to fear so long as he was quiet. 

Thomas tip toed to Tom’s door, and softly rapped upon the wood. For a moment, there was only silence, and Thomas imagined that Tom was already asleep. But then, the door opened, and Tom was revealed in pajamas with hair still neatly combed. His bed didn’t even have a dent in it- Tom must have been sitting at his desk. 

“…May I come in?” Thomas whispered. Tom grinned and stepped aside, happily allowing him entry. 

Thomas shut the door behind them so that they could have privacy. In absolute silence Tom leaned in and kissed Thomas softly upon the lips. It was a sweet, fragile thing. After being hounded both above and below stairs, Thomas savored the kiss and allowed it to linger on his lips. When Tom finally made to pull back, both of them were relaxed and smiling. 

“What a day.” Tom sighed. Thomas sat his ring of keys upon Tom’s beside table next to a picture of Sybil wearing an ornate Sunday hat. Thomas let out a slow, long breath, finally allowing himself to close his eyes. 

“Mary.” Thomas said her name softly. Tom made a tiny noise of agreement in the back of his throat, sitting down upon his bed. Exhausted, Thomas followed suit so that they were side by side. 

“She knows something is up.” Tom murmured, an understatement if ever there was one. 

“The minute she finds out, I’m done for.” 

“That’s not true, Thomas. I won’t let you be done for. We’re in this together you and I… you’re hardly going to be flung into the street.” Tom scooted closer so that they were pressed thigh to thigh. Tom reached behind him to rub at the tense plains of his back, Thomas laced his fingers, staring at his knees as Tom consoled him in the semi-dark. The only light that came to them now was from a small side lamp on Tom’s vanity where a small bowl of water and a razor showed Tom had been shaving. Thomas reached out to touch his handsome face, finding it incredibly smooth. Tom leaned into his hand, reaching up to cup Thomas’ fingers between his own in order to kiss his knuckles. 

His lips were hot upon Thomas’ cool skin. 

“… But I will Tom.” Thomas whispered. He reached out, tugging at Branson’s firm chin even as Tom tried to keep kissing his fingers. Tom’s brown eyes were wide and naive, utterly loving. What had he done in his hollow life to deserve such sweet eyes. 

“I will.” Thomas repeated. “Lord Grantham will be furious when you tell him. I know you want to come out to the family… but it will backfire on you. Please, I beg of you. Keep our love a secret.” 

“We have nothing to be ashamed of.” Tom assured him. “I won’t let you suffer for our love, Thomas.”   
He leaned in, brushing his nose tenderly against Thomas’ cheek. Thomas took a moment to merely sense Tom- to smell the mint of his tooth powder and the coconut oil of his shampoo. It was calmed, soothed; Tom leaned in even more, and kissed him once more. 

“So- Mary is close-“ Tom murmured in between kisses, “Who else?” 

“Anna.” Thomas whispered, reaching up to cup Tom’s head in his hands. he stroked Tom’s temples with his thumbs, rubbing at the pulse he found banging beneath the fine skin, “Maybe. I’m unsure.” 

“… Don’t be afraid.” Tom didn’t even have his eyes open, so content was he, “We’ll come to it when we come to it.” 

It was nice to think they lived in a calm and loving world where they could kiss and cling without having to fear every shadow of every corner. But Tom seemed determined for them to be happy, and Thomas had been so unhappy for so long that the yearning in his stomach was making him growing impatient and unfocused. Sloppy. 

It might have gone on that way forever, them merely kissing on the bed and being content, but then as Thomas reached up to continue stroking Tom’s silky smooth hair, the top of his white tie became slightly loose in its knot. It reveled a mere fraction of skin, nothing to write home about- but Tom was captivated by it and stare endlessly. He even reached out, halting their kisses so as to touch Thomas’ bare skin with the tips of his fingers. Thomas held back the tiniest of groans, unwilling to show Tom just how captivated he was. 

Tom glanced up at him, and even in the dark Thomas could see the lust in his eyes. The longing. 

“Please.” Tom whispered. 

Please what? Please show more skin? 

It was dangerous, even with the family asleep. A disaster could strike, like the time Lady Edith had caught her bedroom on fire. 

But then again… 

When would they get a chance like this again? Lord and Lady Grantham gone- Lady Edith likewise out of the house. Half the servants gone, Carson and Mrs. Hughes far away… my god it was like the night had been planned for them. 

Thomas’ insecurities ate at him… but Tom’s fingers were still playing on the tiny naked patch of skin at the nape of his neck. His fingers were curling, tugging at his white tie till it was discarded away entirely. It fell to the floor between them, revealing Thomas’ neck entirely beneath the stiff starch of his livery. Where ever Tom touched him, Thomas felt hot. Like scalding tea slipping down the column of his throat, he was scorched by Tom’s fingertips as they traveled to his collar bone.

One button popped, and then another.   
And then another. 

 

….Bugger it. 

Thomas leaned in, capturing Tom’s butter-soft lips in a smoldering kiss even as Tom plucked at the buttons of his livery. Thomas shrugged out of his top coat, letting it fall onto the floor as he reached out and grabbed at Tom’s pajama top. Their tongues and teeth clashed, a violent dance that only they two knew by heart as Tom yanked off his black vest and let it fall to the floor. Thomas shucked his suspenders, finally able to get Tom’s pajama top unbuttoned. He pushed it free from Tom’s broad shoulders, revealing every inch of glorious naked skin he’d so longed for. Unable to control himself, Thomas crawled right on top of Tom’s lap and broke his kiss if only to trail kisses down Tom’s neck and collar bone. He kiss Tom’s bulging pectorals- by god if the man wasn’t muscled. Oh, it was heaven for Thomas. Utter heaven for him. Tom’s skin was as white as snow- a trademark of any Irish man- but he was shockingly handsome with a smattering of dark brown chest hair and dusky colored nipples. Thomas latched onto one, nipping at the sensitive flesh to take the raised nub into his mouth. 

Tom hitched a breath, beginning to shake. His lust seemed to balloon. He reached up and grabbed Thomas by the hair, pulling Thomas back with a wet pop to kiss him passionately upon the mouth and jerk his shirtsleeves off. Two buttons popped loose to fall to the floor, but Thomas didn’t care. He shucked his shirt onto the floor; Tom reached to his belt, jerking up Thomas’ undershirt and helping him to pull it over his head entirely. 

Thomas toed off his shoes, toenails scraping against his skin as he slipped up the side of his trouser legs to jerk down his sock garters and socks. 

Tom traced Thomas’ skin with his eyes and hands, twisting and turning Thomas so that suddenly Thomas was falling onto Tom’s bed with Tom atop of him. Tom kissed his on each pectoral, then directly over his heart. It was like Tom was trying to kiss his pulse, and Thomas cupped at the back of his head as Tom gently massaged the muscles at his sides. 

Hot. _Hot._   
Thomas was being cleansed by fire. It was a miracle he wasn’t smoking from Tom’s touch. 

“You’re so beautiful.” Tom whispered into his skin. “God you’re so beautiful.” 

“Whatever.” Thomas mumbled, unconvinced. 

“You are.” Tom straightened up, catching his eye. He let his fingers roam over Thomas’ skin, fingers trailing over his dark chest hair. “You are so incredibly beautiful.” 

“… You’re really pale.” Thomas whispered back. Tom snorted, unable to stop himself in his humor.

For a moment they rutted together, heathens in their violent delights. Thomas could feel Tom’s cock growing heavy in his pajama trousers, brushing hard against Thomas’ own still trapped beneath fabric and belt. 

For a moment the only sound was their fragile whimpering, the pair of them hissing into each other’s ear as they gasped for delight. 

“Christ is it wrong of me to want you?” Tom whispered; Thomas had his eyes closed, lost to the sensation of Tom’s cock being pressed into the nook of his thigh and hip, “I’ve only had you for a few weeks but god so help me I want you.” 

“We’ve lived… alone for too long.” Thomas mumbled blissfully, eyes closed. Was he dead? Was he dreaming? It was difficult to say. “Deprived… of good things.” 

“Don’t deprive me.” Tom’s breath was hot at his cheek, his lips at the corner of Thomas’ mouth. He nipped at the sensitive skin he found there. Thomas gasped at the sudden sensation, eyes still closed. 

“Darling. I wouldn’t dream of it.” Thomas whispered. 

Tom’s fingers were at his belt, pulling it open of teeth and tab to get at the buttons of his trousers. Thomas slowly opened his weary eyes to see Tom up on his knees, shucking his own pajama trousers so that he was only in pants. He cast his clothes over the side in a ball, reaching down to finish his work on Thomas’ clothes. 

Thomas closed his eyes again for a moment, somehow feeling virginal and pure as Tom pulled at his trousers. His pants were taken in the same sweep, and suddenly he was quite naked beneath Tom. A heavy thump signaled Thomas’ clothes being thrown over the side of the bed. 

Thomas blinked open his eyes, and found Tom gaping at him in only his leather wrist cuffs. Tom was captivated by him and stared intensely to the point of making Thomas want to squirm. He suddenly felt ugly and small, like a bug underneath a magnifying glass. 

“Christ…” Tom whispered, eyes roving over Thomas’ skin. “You’re divine.” 

Thomas brought his hands up his chin, resting his fingers underneath his face as he stared at Tom. He still had on his pants, and Thomas could not help but want to know what lay underneath. Tom smiled, sitting up so that he was almost resting upon Thomas’ naked lap. He hooked his thumbs into the drawstrings of his pants, pulling them loose and gently tugging them down. Thomas’ breath hitched in his throat as a darkening trail of hair finally revealed Tom’s cock. Tom pulled his pants fully free of his legs, tossing them over the side of the bed so that the only stitch of clothing between them was Thomas’ leather wrist cuffs. 

Tom’s cock was thick, heavy with blood and darkening as it stiffened underneath Thomas’ gaze. Like Thomas, for religious reasons he was uncircumcised, his balls round and firm, resting beneath his cock and darkened with a gentle thatch of brown hair. He was absolutely perfect, and Thomas breathed shallowly feeling almost as if he had a fever from his delirious desire. 

He wanted that cock in him, damnit. He wanted Tom to press him into the mattress. To smother him. 

_Wee!_ His marbles cried with glee, _We’re a gunsel! We’re a gunsel!_

_Yes we are_ , Thomas thought vindictively, for once in agreement with his marbles. 

Tom touched Thomas’ stomach, fingers ghosting up his solar plexus and chest as he took Thomas’ hands in his own to pull them away from his face. He fingered Thomas’ leather cuffs, tugging gently at their strings so that they did not unlace so much as strain. 

“…Can I?” Tom whispered. 

“…I…” Thomas was unsure, afraid. 

“… S’okay.” Tom assured him, soothing him like one might a frightened horse. It didn’t offend him, “I want to see.” 

Thomas blushed and nodded. Funny that this should embarrass him more than being naked. 

Tom took each of Thomas’ wrists individually, unwrapping them like presents as he tugged off the leather. When they were freed and left to cool in the air, Thomas brought them immediately back up to his chin so that Tom couldn’t see the scars underneath. Tom smiled, taking the leather wrappings and putting them upon his bedside table. Then, he turned back for Thomas and reached out again to take up his hands and turn over his wrists. 

He stared in silence at Thomas’ scars, and then kissed him. He sucked at Thomas’ scarred skin, so that Thomas gasped. 

“S’okay Thomas.” Tom mumbled into the wet skin of his wrists. But was any of this okay? Was it okay when Thomas was as cracked as an egg mentally? “S’okay.” 

Tom leaned over to gently capture Thomas’ lips. He moved Thomas’ hands to frame his face, placing them upon the pillow on either side of his head as he fully pressed his body to Thomas and kissed him soundly. 

This is what Thomas wanted, what Thomas craved. To be smothered, protected, cared for in the most intimate of ways. He reached up to grab at the back of Tom’s head, squeezing brown hair painfully tight as Tom dug a hand deep into mattress beneath him and hitched a leg up on the side of his waist. The covers were slipping from around them, not so much covering them as framing them while Tom rocked his body into Thomas’. His cock responded at once, stiffening from the intimate touch as Tom’s cock lay trapped beneath their stomachs, wetting the skin in excitement. 

Tom pulled back to stare at him again, somehow amazed by what he saw. Thomas was able to see a scar near Tom’s ribs and gently touched it to trace its slanted shape. It almost mirrored the curve of his ribs. 

“Farming accident.” Tom whispered, glancing down at his chest where Thomas touched him, “I was seven, fell off a tractor.” 

But there was more. A burn on Tom’s thigh that looked pearly pink to the touch. Thomas dropped his hand, rubbing his thumb over the burn. 

“Night of the fire.” Tom said, “The flames got damn high.” 

“… Don’t I know it.” Thomas whispered, thinking of how the flames had scorched his own skin when he’d rescued Lady Edith from her bedroom. 

Tom reached up, gently touched a scar that framed Thomas’ left cheekbone. He’d gotten it at the Thirsk fair when he’d taken that beating for Jimmy. 

…Funny to think of Jimmy now; to think of how much he’d loved him. Thomas had once thought Jimmy his sun and moon, but now laying beneath Tom Branson, Thomas realized that Jimmy had been much too selfish for his needs and tastes. Fun, but selfish… Thomas needed someone who could take care of him and his damn marbles. Jimmy probably had marbles all his own. 

“Thirsk fair.” Thomas whispered. Tom made a noise at the back of his throat, running his thumb over Thomas’ scar. 

“Why did you get into that fight?” Tom asked, curious. 

“Jimmy.” 

“Punk was drunk as a skunk.” Tom rhymed, shaking his head for shame. 

“An’ flashin’ his money.” Thomas added, remembering how Jimmy’d boasted and swaggered his winnings. His _unfair_ winnings. 

But Tom was finished with talking. He rocked his hips into Thomas’, and the resulting friction against his cock rendered him silent as he leaned back in and kissed Thomas again. Thomas wrapped his arms around Tom’s back as Tom reached down to feel at his arse again. He squeezed, pulling Thomas up so that their cocks were trapped together. 

Tom’s hand was moving to the cleft of his arse. Thomas whimpered at the digging sensation, wanting and needing more even as Tom’s fingers found his tightened center. Tom pushed with needy hands, but-! 

“Wait. Wait-“ Tom pulled back at once with Thomas’ words, eyes searching his face for pain or fear… such a gentleman, “Your hand.” 

Tom cocked an eyebrow, waiting in confusion. 

“You need somethin-“ Thomas started to say, but Tom caught on quick enough and smacked his forehead with a free hand in irritation. 

“Ah!” Tom grumbled, reaching for his nightstand. “Sorry, wasn’t thinking.” He brought back a small tin of hand cream from his drawer, nothing to write home about but perfect for the job. He let go of Thomas’ arse, bringing both hands up to slicken his fingers so that they were coated a pearly white in the moonlight, “S’different with a woman.” 

“If you say so.” Thomas muttered in agreement. Tom leaned over him again, capturing his lips in another kiss- 

“Oh-!” Thomas breath hitched in his chest; his pressed his face into the crook of Tom’s neck as Tom’s fingers plundered his channel, pumping and pushing- “Jesus, fuck-!” Thomas cursed through clenched teeth, “Go easy!”. The burn was insane, purging him from the inside out. 

“Sorry, I’m buggering this up-“ 

“No, you’re buggering me-“ Thomas corrected. Tom snorted into his cheek, laughing even as he pumped his fingers. One became two. 

“You make me laugh way too much.” Tom muttered. Two became three. The burn was delicious- made Thomas delirious, and Thomas moaned aloud. “Shh-“ He used his free hand to cover Thomas’ mouth. “Someone’ll hear.” 

“I don’t bloody care.” Thomas mumbled beneath Tom’s fingers. Let the whole world hear. Tom Branson’s hand was fucking him better than other men had done with their whole pricks. Thomas twisted his head left and right, trying to escape from the sensation and back into the realms of sanity but it was fuckin’ useless. Oh dear god-! It had been so long. Death had made him numb to pleasure. Tom Branson was life. 

He was bringing Thomas back to life- to the point of tears. 

“God help me.” Tom was overcome by the sounds Thomas issued, each high pitch whimper undoing him as his hand went faster- his fingers deeper, “I want to bugger you- I don’t even care.” 

“Do it…” Thomas groaned, taking Tom’s prick in hand. He stroked the stiff member, wrapping his fingers in an expert grip so that Tom was grunting in his ear. “Do it, Tom… I need you. I need this.” 

He needed to live again. 

“But… isn’t it too fast?” Tom whispered, “Aren’t you worried?” He pulled back, sniffing as he looked Thomas in the eye. Beneath him his fingers stilled, stroking his inner channel but no longer pumping, “Don’t you want to be with me longer?” 

“…Men like us… we aren’t afforded the luxury of long romances.” Thomas whispered. The thought of this coming to an end made his chest squeeze painfully tight so he refused to think about it. He’d thought enough about death to last a lifetime. 

“God so help, you will be.” Tom declared, whispering his prayer to the dark and the moon- to the sweat on Thomas’ skin as the sickened hand cream upon his own fingers, “I’ll romance you all my life.” 

Wooed, Thomas captured Tom in a kiss, reaching up to bring him back down as Tom let his hand slip from Thomas’ channel to take Thomas’s legs and hitch them apart. He moved low, his cock slipping from Thomas’ chest as Thomas wrapped his legs around Tom’s waist. His heart was pounding in his chest. 

“God help me-“ Tom pressed their noses- their faces together, “I’m so sorry if I hurt you when I do this.” 

“…S’fine.” Thomas understood completely. There was no easy way for them to love. 

Tom reached up with a gentle hand, eyes locked on Thomas’ for every second as he put his hand over Thomas’ mouth. Thomas breathed hard through his nose as Tom used his other hand to take his cock in a commanding grip. 

Thomas felt the head of Tom’s arousal push at his center. He hitched a breath, whimper cut off by Tom’s fingers. 

Tom entered him, and Thomas wailed beneath his hand. 

~*~

Mary shifted, waking from sleep though she couldn’t tell why. Her first thought was that Henry must have rolled as he was often prone to do in the middle of the night… but Henry was just as she’d left him in waking hours, flat on his back and snoring softly to their taupe canopy. 

She rolled on her side, closing her eyes again. 

_“-Hngh!”_

Mary’s eyes opened again. 

Despite her rather lyrical upbringing, dining on Shakespeare and the classics in her pampered nursery in childhood, Mary was not the type to be fooled by her senses. She was certain she’d heard something, like a muted whimper of distress, and slowly sat up in bed to listen intently to the silence. 

She heard nothing else, but she was not satisfied.   
That whimper had sounded so sincere, so pain-filled that she knew instinctively something must be wrong. The thought of George in pain frightened her, and she slipped out of bed at once to fetch her housecoat and slippers. 

She would go to the nursery and investigate. If she found nothing she would return to bed. 

~*~

Tom was huge- way too huge- there should be laws against cocks this thick. Thomas whimpered with each push as Tom fucked him with commanding thrusts. Some men didn’t know how to fuck. English living made them completely unprepared for what it took to squeeze an orgasm out of another human being. It was difficult to be lustful when you had to say ‘pardon me’ and ‘I beg your forgiveness’, but mercifully Tom Branson was not English and didn’t give a flying Irish fuck about propriety. 

No, he just wanted to screw Thomas’ brains out.   
And Thomas could respect that. 

“Christ- fuck me- oh god-“ Tom canted in his ear, hiccuping from the strain of his lust as Thomas squeezed his thighs even tighter around Tom’s plump waist. “I don’t know how much longer I can hang on-“ 

“Steady on.” Thomas whispered endearingly in his ear, trailing his fingers soothingly up and down Tom’s tense back muscles. Inspired, Tom grasped Thomas’ wrists from where they were pinned on either side of his head and brought them back up to his mouth to kiss them languidly. He balanced upon his elbows for weight, licking and sucking Thomas’ suicide scars. 

“Never again, darlin’…” Tom murmured. Thomas listened intently, commanded to Tom’s attention as Tom fucked him with every snap of his hips, “Never again.” 

Thomas closed his eyes, rocked into a blissful lull as his body’s urge for physical contact was finally quenched after a twenty year drought. Tom was warm, heavy, perfect- everything that he needed to feel safe, secure, and loved. But he kissed Thomas’ eyelids, fingers dancing over his cheeks and lips as he whispered in his ear, “Hey- look at me-“ 

Thomas did as he was bid, lazily blinking his eyes open to see Tom above him. Sweat was dripping down the sides of his neck and face, his pectorals flushed bright pink from the exertion of making love to a man for the first time. 

“Don’t ever try to kill yourself again, please?” Tom begged, weak, “Not when I love you so.”   
Thomas could not help but hear the fear in his voice. 

_He loves me_ , Thomas realized, _He loves me. If I were to die it would kill him too_. 

“… Okay.” He finally whispered, his marbles utterly quiet at the shock of being loved for the first time. 

Soothed, Tom hoisted Thomas’ legs higher up around his waist, pushing Thomas’ knees to the mattress. His rhythm became faster, as brutal as the waves that bashed Ireland’s rocky shore- and Thomas groaned aloud as he fisted Tom’s hair tight to anchor himself amid the fray. His body was singing, his nerves on fire, his prostate rammed repeatedly… but that was as it should be. 

All this was as it should be. 

~*~

As she walked down the darkened gallery hall, Mary listened intently. For the most part she heard nothing but the abbey breathing around her. Yet as she passed the wing of the bachelors corridor, Mary was certain something was off. 

It was like the house was warning her, demanding her attention to right some wrong. 

Nervous, Mary quickened her step till she was at the nursery door, and opened it slowly to find Nanny Armstrong reading a novel in her rocking chair. She looked about, smiling faintly as Mary closed the door. 

“I apologize for bothering you so late.” Mary whispered, “But did you hear something odd?” 

“No, M’lady.” Nanny Armstrong said. Mary felt soothed, knowing at least it wasn’t Georgie. “Nothing down this way. The children are fast asleep.” 

“Good.” Mary leaned in, ever so carefully opening the nursery door to find that (sure enough) Georgie was snoring softly in his bed. He slept on his side, curled up into a ball like a little pill bug. 

Matthew had often slept the same way. Mary wondered if it was hereditary. 

She closed the door to the nursery till it latched faintly, and nodded to Nanny Armstrong who smiled back and returned her gaze to her book as she continued to rock in her chair. Mary closed the door to the playroom, pursing her lips as she made to return to bed. 

Honestly it was far too late for her to be out wandering the halls. She ought to get some sleep if she were to be presentable for the morning. 

 

Mary sighed, rubbing at her brow with manicured finger tips.   
She passed by the bachelors corridor again- 

_“Oh-!”_

Mary stopped dead, face turned to the dark hall.

~*~

Thomas had never been made love to in such a way; it almost felt like they were playing instead of breaking the laws of god and man. Tom was giggling in his ear, whispering his pleasure to Thomas even as Thomas kissed his temple and listened with glee. Sweat coated both their skins, making them slick as they slipped together; Tom was going fast. The muscles in Tom’s powerful thighs and back made Thomas his absolute slave but only in one way; with each thrust Thomas whispered in his ear urging him on…. in control even while under duress. 

“Oh, that’s it-“ Thomas whispered softly in Tom’s sweaty ear, “Oh that’s it, just like that- you’re so good at this aren’t you-?” 

“God I love you-“ Tom choked out, floored with a newfound wave of arousal, “I love you so much I can’t stand it-“ 

“Tom-!” Thomas hiccuped from the strain, clutching Tom even tighter as Tom all but bent him in half to hit his prostate harder. Thomas wanted to say so many things, to proclaim Tom as God, to command him to go faster, to forswear that he was Tom’s eternally and no others… but none of this could be issued forth. Thomas was was rendered mute save for tiny breathes clenched tight in the back of his throat. Blood pounded in his ears; stars danced before his eyes. 

“Come on darlin’” Tom whispered heavily into his ear, voice thick with lust. He began to fist Thomas, sweaty hand sliding up and down his engorged prick to coax an orgasm out of him; he started grinning, “Talk about a Yorkshire hello-“ 

“Irish salute-“ Thomas grinned, for some reason struggling not to laugh. Here was a first, laughing while being jacked off. 

“God bless Ireland.” 

“Oh Danny boy.” Thomas groaned, sparks of arousal shooting deep into his bell, “Oh- oh-!” He panted, haggard. “Oh, Oh Tom! Tom!” 

“I love you-“ Tom was almost biting his skin, teeth and lips pressed tight to Thomas’ temple. 

“I love you…” Thomas heaved an enormous sigh. He turned his face to the side, kissed Tom full on the mouth. 

He felt Tom cum, semen pushed deep inside as his cock pulsed in Thomas’ hyper-sensitive passage. The result was so much pleasure that Thomas had no choice but to cum. He was at Tom’s mercy, seed spilling into Tom’s clenched fist till it painted both their bellies and cooled in the night air. 

Lulled by his orgasm, Thomas sighed, head sagging on the pillow- 

“Oh …” Tom breathed softly in his ear, kissing him. Thomas had never been kissed so sweetly. So softly. So- 

 

“What is going on- DEAR GOD-!” 

The lights clicked on. 

Love, adoration, and peace fled in a heartbeat to be replaced by throat-clenching horror as Thomas realized the absolute worst had happened: they had been caught. Petrified, Thomas shot up in bed, desperately clutching at the sheets to cover himself in his indecency as his vision spiraled about the strewn room. Tom blocked him, his body a shield for Thomas to hide behind as Thomas observed (in terror) Lady Mary in a night robe, hair tousled and expression a mixture of shock and disgust. 

Her lip was curling, her breath panting is dismay. 

_Oh god_ , Thomas could only think in horror. _Oh god, no_. 

Tom panted, enraged and bitter, arms around around his back to keep Thomas close to him so that Lady Mary could not see his naked form. But Thomas was pretty certain Lady Mary had just seen everything there was too see and more, so that hot shame suddenly licked at this throat and made tears prick at the corners of his eyes. 

“… What have you done…?” Lady Mary whispered, absolutely disgusted. It was difficult to know whom she spoke to. 

“Fine, the secret’s out.” Tom bit, amazingly unafraid, “I love him. He’s the one I’ve been talking about. We’ve been together for weeks now.” 

“Oh, I see-“ Lady Mary said, her voice breathy with shock and anger, “And so now was the appropriate time to take him to bed-“ She gestured at them angrily, arm flopping at her side. It was the most unkempt, the most uncouth that Thomas had ever seen her. 

“Don’t pretend you understand the situation or our love-!” Tom chided. 

“I won’t!” She shouted, seething at Tom’s bravery. Behind him, Thomas pressed his face in between Tom’s shoulder’s blades, petrified. “Not when it goes against everything that’s right- everything that’s decent!” 

This was the end. This was how it ended for him. God Mary was going to call the police. This was it- 

“Oh, I see!” Tom sneered, voice pompous and bitter at Lady Mary’s sudden claim to piety, “So it’s blessed Mary Talbot one minute and Mary the scythe the next! Will you mow down everyone who isn’t exactly to societies liking, or just members of the lower class?! You ought to phone Larry Gray if that’s your idea of a good time!” 

“Don’t be vulgar!” She cut across him at once, somehow more offended by being compared to Larry Gray than all the rest, though Thomas couldn’t see how. “I won’t be associated with the likes of him!” 

This was bad, he had to go. 

Thomas kept low to the bed, slinking along the covers behind Tom to slip off the side and quickly grab his clothes from the floor. Using the mattress to block Mary’s view of him, Thomas shoved on his pants and trousers with trembling hands, not even bothering buttoning up his white shirt or his vest. He grabbed his tie, his leather cuffs, and shoved them to his bare chest as he staggered up and clutched at the four poster poll. Tom was up from bed, the top sheet wrapped around his bare midriff to offer him meager decency though his chest still dripped in sweat and his cheeks were flushed bright pink. There was no way to hide what they’d been doing- no way to deny the facts when Thomas’ passage burned with Tom’s seed and his own release stained his belly. 

“And you won’t be associated with the likes of me either, now that I’m in love with a man?!” Tom demanded thunderous. Lady Mary’s face was jumping in anger, turning vicious in the blink of an eye as Tom, once again, completely missed the point. 

“It’s not a man, it’s Barrow!” She cried out his name like a curse, “Thomas Barrow! Who we all know like family! How could you two do this, committing a carnal sin, when your child is asleep just down the hall! When both our children are?!” 

Lady Mary scoffed, incredulous, “He’s the butler for god’s sake, or at least he was-“ she added scathingly, glaring at Thomas even as he cowed behind the four poster poll in terror, “I highly doubt he will be when papa hears of this-“ 

“Please, M’lady-“ Thomas whimpered, mouth pressed to the cold waxed wood. “Please, I beg of you-“ 

But Lady Mary could not be moved to empathy, by his or Tom’s emotional state.   
That didn’t stop Tom from trying, though. 

“Oh I see!” He sneered, wildly, sheet nearly slipping from his midriff in his fury, “So now you’re judge, jury, and executor all in one! How convenient!” 

“I am Lady Mary Talbot!” She said her name with all the pride of Queen of Sheba, “And as far as he’s concerned-“ She jerked her head to where Thomas stood shaking, “I might as well be all the rest.” 

With that she turned, walked straight to the door and slammed it behind her in her wake. 

The room did not stay silent as a sob burst from Thomas’ throat in a pathetic bubble of sound. He staggered away from the pole, absolutely terrified as he ran for Tom’s door. He did not know where he would go now- to the woods, to the cellar, to the attic- but knew that above all he could not stay here. That he would have to hide to save his life lest Mary call the police and have him thrown in jail or an asylum. 

“Thomas-!” 

Tom dropped the sheet, dignity forgotten as he tried to take Thomas in his arms. But he was too slow- Thomas was already to the door- already gone even as Tom reached out to take him. 

~*~

Once when he’d been quite small, Henry Talbot could remember watching in great anticipation as an orchestra cued up in its pit for an opening premier of a new opera. He’d been a little lad, but even he had been able to fully appreciate the art as actors and singers alike poured onto the massive stage and appealed to the audience. There had been such incredible tension in the air right before the curtain had opened however. Like the whole world had hung on the balance of a golden pull string. 

When he’d come down for breakfast and found both Tom and Barrow looking frightened, it had felt much the same way. 

Henry had left Mary asleep in bed; she’d appeared slightly pale even in slumber as if taking to a cold (which wouldn’t be odd given the nasty weather). Yet as he came downstairs and now found two others pale and withdrawn he couldn’t help but wonder what on earth he’d missed. 

“Tom?” Henry called out to him; Tom froze in his seat, glancing nervously at Henry even as Henry filled his plate with breakfast and sat down. Barrow scooted his chair up to the table, offering him a fresh cup of coffee. Henry noted his hands were shaking, if only lightly. 

“Is everything alright?” Henry wondered. Neither man spoke. 

“Yes.” Tom finally replied, his throat tight. He coughed several times; Thomas came around and offered him a glass of water. Tom accepted it at once, gulping hastily. Perhaps the coffee hadn’t agreed with him. 

“Only… Everyone seems slightly distant.” Henry admitted. Behind Tom, Barrow was practically dripping with sweat as he nervously sat the coffee pot back on the serving station. He was more afraid than Tom; at a distance Henry could now see that it wasn’t just Barrow’s hands which were trembling. It was his whole body. Dear god had the man taken with flue? 

The door to the dining hall opened. Henry looked around, amazed to find Mary standing in the doorway. The glare she gave Barrow was thunderous. 

“Mary!” Henry stood up, offering a chair for her. She fetched a plate, eyes unbelievably cold as she took up a meagre breakfast and sat down. Henry scooted her chair to the table, amazed to find that she’d decided to join them for breakfast. What on earth was she doing downstairs? Why was she so angry? What in the hell was going on? 

“Whatever are you doing down here?” Henry wondered. Barrow slowly came around the table, pouring Mary a cup of coffee with a shaking hand. Mary did not take it, not even looking at Barrow as she instead picked up her knife to butter her bread. Her jaw was set like iron, making her look more like a gladiator than a beauty. 

“I thought I might get some air.” She said. Even Henry could hear the menace in her voice. 

“…Are you quite alright, darling?” Henry asked, very nervous indeed. What on earth had happened to upset her so? Mary did not even look at him, munching on her toast. She reached around her cup of coffee, neglecting to so much as touch it. She instead drank water, which was uncommon for her. 

Across the table from her, Tom’s fists were balled. If Mary was cold, Tom was angry. His normal jovial nature was long gone, to be replaced by the fiery radical Henry had heard about. He looked keen to set the whole Abbey ablaze in that moment; it made Henry more nervous than Mary’s anger. 

“… Tom.” Henry was desperate to sooth his angry breakfast mates, “I was going to go to London this afternoon. I thought you might come with me? I’m going to look at some car sales. We could make a weekend of it. I know you’re angry, and I’m sorry- let’s get out of the house and have some fun? Mary you could come too!” Henry urged. “It could be fun-“ 

“No.” Mary snapped, with such finality that Henry was mildly shocked. “I’ll stay here. I have a few things to do.” 

Off put, Henry looked across the table. “Tom?” 

“… I think I might stay too.” Tom replied icily. Mary gave him a smile, but it was forced and fake. Henry did not like it on her face at all. 

“Please. Go with Henry.” She challenged. Tom glared at her, no longer touching his breakfast. Barrow stood just behind him, as if backing Tom up in his battle. “Have a good time out, get some fresh air. Barrow and I will keep each other company.” 

At this, Mary’s cold eyes slid to Barrow who froze like a deer caught in a hunter’s gaze.   
He was petrified. 

“Won’t we.” Mary finished. Barrow said nothing for a second, his nervous breathing obvious in the cold morning air. 

“…M’lady.” Barrow finally replied, as good an answer as any. 

Tom closed his eyes, bowing his head. He looked like he’d been ordered to his execution. 

~*~

Mary might have thought to scar monger Thomas, but Tom was determined to keep him calm. Whatever scheme she was pulling, Thomas was stronger than her (even if he didn’t realize it). As of present, with nothing but Thomas’ sniffles to break the still morning air in Tom’s bedroom, Tom sat side by side with him on the bed just as they’d done late last night with his arm around Thomas’ shoulder. 

After making love to Thomas last night and being caught by Mary, Tom had lain awake till morning working out an escape plan in his head. If worst came to worst, Tom had decided that he was going to make a run for it to Liverpool. Kieran was still there, working as a mechanic. The minute Mary rang for the police (if that was what she was going to do) Tom was going to take Thomas and Sybbie and flee. 

He didn’t know what they would do after that. Maybe work in Liverpool for a little while with Kieran before building their own life together… but Tom wouldn’t be parted from either of them.   
Not now, not ever. 

“I promise it won’t be long.” Tom whispered, rubbing Thomas’ back soothingly. He wondered if Thomas was in any pain after last night. “I’ll stay for two days then head straight back.” 

He reached up, touching Thomas’ face. “If something happens while I’m gone, I want you to take Sybbie and run to Liverpool. My brother Kieran works there as a car mechanic. He knows about me, and he’s a good man. He won’t judge you for seeking shelter, and I’ll come join you there.” 

At this, Tom pressed a letter into Thomas’ shaking hands- detailed instructions on how to find Kieran and money for transport should he need it. “Everything will be fine, darlin’.” 

“She’s going to do something.” Thomas mumbled, clutching Tom’s letter with pale and shaking hands, “To tell everyone- to call the police- she’s furious.” 

“No, she won’t do that.” Tom urged, wrapping an arm defensively around Thomas’ bowed back. How he despised seeing that look of sorrow and fear upon Thomas’ face. “That’d be too much scandal and you know it, Thomas. Mary wouldn’t dare put the spotlight on the house.” 

“I just don’t know.” Thomas sniffed, voice thick. 

The door opened. 

Tom did not remove his hand from around Thomas’ back, looking up and glaring when he found Mary in the doorway with Anna of all people. Anna looked shocked to find Thomas so miserable, with Tom comforting him in such a familiar way. Tom did not care who saw anymore, for if Anna did not know yet she would soon enough. 

“I thought I might find you both in here.” Mary said, coldly. 

“We were just having a little chat.” Tom snapped, “About the future.” 

“I’m sure it was most illuminating.” Mary sneered, uncaring. “As it so happens, I wanted to speak with you Barrow. If you’d be so kind enough to stand up and act like a servant.” 

Tom was stung by the insult. Mary had never behaved in such a way, and it showed; Anna looked taken aback, quite hurt at her words. Mary did not glance at her maid, instead focusing all her wrath on Thomas as Thomas slowly stood up from the bed. He did not look at Mary, instead fixing his gaze on somewhere close to Anna’s knees. Tom rose with him, a hand still supportively upon his lower back. 

Whatever happened, they would face it together. 

“You see, Barrow, I’m not pleased with the way you’ve been running the estate.” Mary drawled in a cold voice, “I want Carson to come take a look, to give it his professional eye.” 

“Very well, M’lady.” Thomas replied, his voice tight and throaty, “I’ll call him-“ 

“No.” Mary snapped, “I’ll call him. I find I have a few things to say.” 

Tom felt Thomas’ knees buckle; his spine wobbled dangerously. Tom knew that Thomas was terrified of Carson. It was obvious that if there were anyone in the world fit to punish Thomas, it would be the former butler who had always had such an authoritative grip upon the house. 

“Mary.” Tom caught her gaze. She was without mercy in that moment, “For god’s sake-“ 

“Enjoy your time in London, Tom.” She replied, cutting him off. “Things may be different when you return.” 

“I warn you.” Tom snapped, for the first time that morning with a bite in his voice. Mary’s eyes widened on reflex, her lips pursed as a new fire sparked within her. “If you think I leave him unprotected, you’re mad. I won’t return to this abbey should things change. I have other places to go, or have you forgotten I have my own family.” 

Mary’s expression turned stony with the wrapped insult. For Tom to bring up his biological family and refer to them as his closest kin seemed to burn her deeper than he imagined. 

Behind her, Anna’s eyes were narrowing, dancing back and forth between Tom, Thomas, and Mary. It seemed she was still completely out of touch with what had happened last night.   
But depending upon what Mary said to Carson… Anna would know. Everyone would know. So what did it matter. 

“You’re a fool.” Mary snapped. “And _you’re_ needed downstairs.” She added icily to Thomas. “Or have you forgotten you’re the butler.” 

Stung, Thomas slipped away from Tom to head to the door. As he passed, Mary glared at him loathsomely. 

Anna seemed slightly frightened by her expression. As Thomas left, so did she. Now the pair of them were left alone, each glaring thunderously at the other. 

“At to think.” Tom spat. “Your lot imagine they have the monopoly on honor. Well mark me this, Mary Crawley- there’s no honor in what you’re doing now.” 

“So says the man who committed sodomy.” Mary sneered back. 

“Oh I’m sorry would you prefer me to do it at a hotel for a week?” Tom countered. “Or maybe with a turkish diplomat?” 

Mary’s face flooded bright red in rage. 

“How dare you- there is no comparison-!” Mary was so angry she could not get out a complete sentence. “My sins are nothing compared to yours!” 

“Well bully for you!” Tom snapped. Bitter, Mary turned on her heel and stormed from his room, slamming the door behind her so that it rattled on its ancient hinges. 

 

Going downstairs, Tom felt like he was walking to the gallows. Tom was there to offer both him and Henry their coats, helping them to pack their car as the chauffeur waited behind the wheel. Yet even as Thomas fixed their valises onto the back of the car, Tom placed a secret phone call, careful not to be overheard as Mary and Henry said their goodbyes. 

The phone rang several times before being picked up: _“Branson Mechanics-“_

“Kieran,” Tom whispered into the phone, “It’s me, Tom-“ 

_“Blimey Tommy boy!”_ Kieran thundered, amazed. His Irish brogue was a lullaby to Tom, reminding him of home, of all that had once comforted him and kept him safe in Ireland. _“I haven’t heard from you in an age an’ a day! How are you lad-?”_

“Bad.” Tom whispered. 

_“What?”_

“Kieran, listen, I don’t have long.” Tom said in a rush, voice low as he pressed his mouth to the receiver of the phone, “What you need to know is that I’m in danger.” 

_“Jesus hell, Tommy, what have you done now-“_ Kieran demanded, irate. 

“Fallen in love with a man.” Tom whispered. 

_“WHAT?!”_

“Stop shoutin’ in me ear!” Tom snapped, he’d forgotten how loud Kieran’s voice was, “Look, what you need to do is be aware that you may be getting a visitor. He’s in danger- we both are- if the police get called I’ve told him to make a run for it to you. He’s going to have Sybbie with him-“ 

_“Christ on a cross, Tom, what have you done.”_ Kieran moaned dramatically, _“I thought you were happy at that castle of yours! I thought you settled down! What happened? What changed?”_

“Thomas.” Tom said his name with soft pride- 

_“Are you kidding me?”_ Kieran sneered, _“He has the same first name as you? That’s the biggest load of hock if I’ve ever heard one. Drop this boy now, Tommy! Drop him and get back to your life- quit makin’ trouble-“_

“I love him, Kieran.” Tom hissed defiantly. “I love him, I won’t live without him.” 

_“God you’re goin’ to put me in an early grave, Tommy. You know that?”_ Kieran demanded with an ugly moan. 

“Stand by me, Kieran.” Tom begged, “As m’brother, as m’kin… stand by me-“ 

_“What are you even, saying Tommy- of course I stand by you- we’re family. From our mother’s womb to our father’s tomb- I defend your honor as I defend mine-“_

“Then if he comes to your shop, take him in. Take care of him and Sybbie. If he shows up, he’ll call for me and I’ll be there within the day.” Tom murmured softly into the phone. He heard an ugly snort from the other end. 

_“Look, I don’t know what kind of shop you think I’m runnin. This isn't a covenant."_

"Please Kieran! I wouldn't ask this of you if it wasn't an absolute emergency." 

_"Alright, alright, fine damnit! So long as it isn’t permanent I’ll let him stay a while. I can’t believe I’m even sayin this- where have your senses gone to? Where have MINE gone too?”_

“I think you’ve drank them away to be honest.” Tom muttered, for Kieran was worse with the ale than he. 

_“God be with you, Tommy. One day you won’t break our mother’s heart-“_

“And on that day I’ll be dead.” Tom hung up the phone, rubbing his eyes bitterly. 

Despite his brother’s lack of enthusiasm he still felt better knowing that Thomas had an escape route. Kieran might be a bit on the grumpy side but he would care for Thomas, Tom was certain. Kieran would help them set up another life if it came down to the parting of the ways. Tom would be heartbroken to leave the Abbey- to leave the family he’d come to love.. but he would not be without Thomas. He would live with him or he wouldn’t live at all. 

Tom exited the abbey, stepping out onto the cold biting slush. 

Even as Henry kissed Mary goodbye, Tom found himself standing by the car next to Thomas who had his head bowed as he buckled their valises onto the back of the car. He was pale, ashen, frightened. 

“Do not be afraid.” Tom whispered to him. Thomas glanced up to catch his eye; how sorrowful those lovely blue eyes were. “If she calls the police, go to Kieran. He’ll protect you. That letter will protect you… and I’ll come straight back to you in Liverpool.” 

“Tom-“ 

Mary was calling out to him, Tom did not turn around. 

“And when she calls Mr. Carson?” Thomas whispered, fearfully. “When she calls Lord Grantham-“ 

“They’re good men, Thomas. Just keep remembering that they’re good men. They won’t throw you to the dogs.” 

“Tom-“ 

“But say they do.” Thomas whispered, “Say-“ 

“Tom-!” 

“What?!” Tom snarled, whipping around. Mary’s eyes widened reflexively, not used to being yelled at in such a way. She bristled at Henry’s side, crossing her arms over her chest. 

“I was going to say that you’ll miss your train- if you’ll kindly stop dawdling with the butler.” Mary snapped. 

“I have more important things in my life than cars or trains.” Tom was quick to dismiss so an appallingly feeble excuse. “As you know.” 

Henry didn’t know what to say, amazed to find the pair of them arguing in such a way. tom knew that he was in for a long car ride, a harrowing weekend. Henry would want to know what happened. 

Tom resolved to tell them as soon as they were at the hotel in London.   
He would not live in shadow any longer. Not when his love could move mountains. 

Tom turned back around even as Henry clambered into the car and Mary leaned in through the door to kiss him goodbye. 

Tom turned back around, knowing full well he could not kiss Thomas goodbye in public.   
Thomas was utterly miserable as he bowed his head in premature defeat, hands still lingering upon the aged leather straps of the car. Tom reached out, gently touching him at the waist. 

Thomas closed his eyes, refraining from leaning into Tom’s touch but clearly drawing strength from him. 

“I’ll call.” Tom whispered softly. “And I’ll be back in forty eight hours. Count them.” 

Thomas pursed his lips, nodding meekly. 

Tom stepped away, fingers slipping from Thomas’ waist. He headed around the car, taking the opposite side as Henry. He opened the door, looking back over his shoulder to find Thomas still hiding behind the car near the buckled valises.

“Count them, Thomas.” Tom urged him. 

Thomas closed his eyes, stepping back from the trunks. 

_One hour_. Tom thought as he got into the car, closing the door behind him.   
The car took off for the station. 

 

Thomas watched it go, slipping down the driveway and out of sight, snow and sludge churning underneath the tires. At the door to the estate, Mary said absolutely nothing to him. Thomas was now the only one out on the lawn, completely alone as Mary returned inside the house. 

“…One.” Thomas whispered, miserable. In his hand, Tom’s letter was clutched tight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Please review with any questions or concerns you might have **but no fighting or negativity.**


	15. You Turn the Screws

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lady Mary punishes Thomas.   
> Twice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now we're officially into the second wave of drama and turmoil in the fic. Thank you so much for continuing to read and review (and not fight). I'm very glad that you're all enjoying it. I've certainly been enjoying it too!

Henry Talbot sat upon the window ledge of their Knightsbridge hotel room, an untouched glass of scotch in hand and a cigarette slowly turning to ash in the other. 

Tom Branson watched Henry carefully, glancing down at his pocket watch to find that it had been twelve hours since he’d spoken with Thomas. This roughly meant thirty six hours until he saw Thomas again. 

He glanced back up. Henry was still silent upon the window ledge, looking as if someone had just flung a shoe at his face. 

“…I don’t…” Henry’s voice was but a squeak till he coughed and straightened it out. Irritated Tom leaned against the wall, arms over his chest. Really what was so damn hard to figure out. “I don’t understand. You and Thomas are… what?” 

“You heard me.” Tom warned. How else was one supposed to take the phrase: _“Thomas and I are in love and together.”_

Henry seemed to be trying to internally come up with every other configuration in the English language besides the obvious, bless him. He stuttered, unable to bring his scotch to his lips. 

“And… Mary saw you-“ 

Henry cut off again, unable to go on. 

Henry used his hands, gesturing with both scotch and cigarette so that a clump of ash fell to the carpeted floor and liquor nearly spilled out. 

“Making love.” Tom snapped. He looked away in slight disgust; why on earth couldn’t Henry just say it, “Bloody English…” 

“My god..” Henry shook his head in horror, “Why?” 

A good question but it might have had something to do with the fact that Thomas had been in the throws of ecstasy, “She probably heard us-“ 

“No, Tom!” Henry stood up, now well and truly angry at Tom, “Why?!” 

“Because I love him!” Tom refused to back down. Henry slammed down his scotch, now the one to be disgusted. “Because he loves me! Because I’m complete with him and I can’t imagine a day on earth without him! Because when I’m with him my soul sings, and I wanted to make love to him— is that so bizarre Henry?!” He couldn’t help but make a personal jab, “You got Mary pregnant, surely you can fathom the rest.” 

Had it been a slightly less serious situation, Henry might have risen to the bait and fought back. As it was, he was much too flabbergasted to take the insult and instead just continued to grope for straws: “Tom, you’re not a… a… different sort-“ Henry begged, “You’ve married a woman, you’ve had a child. Why are you doing this?” 

He said it in such a way like it could be comparable to setting a house on fire. 

“I like… both!” Tom tried to explain, but it was fruitless. Henry just wasn’t listening, staring at Tom as if he was insane, “I can see the good in both-!” 

“That’s mad.” Henry said. 

“It’s not!” Tom could have exploded with rage in that moment. Why was it so fucking insane to see both men and women as attractive? Men thought women were nice looking- women thought men were nice looking- that must mean there were nice looking qualities about both sexes! It wasn’t like he wanted to make love to every man or woman he saw. 

“It’s very simple-“ Tom protested when Henry still continued to look at him like he was mad, “Have you ever seen a man that you thought was attractive?” 

Henry’s brow furrowed, his dark eyes darting back and forth as he mentally navigated the face of every man he’d known. “…No.” 

“But say you did-“ Tom offered. Henry just shook his head. 

“I can’t imagine such a man existing.” Henry grumbled. Fair enough, fair enough. He didn’t want a piece of the same pie. Tom could respect that. 

“Fine, so you just like women.” Tom concurred, so that Henry emphatically nodded his head, “But it is possible to like both sides, Henry-!” 

“There’s a fine line between liking and…” Henry dropped his tone, clearly horrified to say the word, _“buggering”_

Tom rolled his eyes, groaning to the ceiling. What was it with the English and their terror of buggery? 

“And your _buggering!”_ Henry hissed, “A man!” 

“Do you despise me for it?” Tom snapped, bitter, thinking of all the good times he’d shared with Henry. Car races, friendly banters, romps about the village and tag teaming on Mary… was it all about to end? Henry suddenly looked guilty, and thought it wasn’t logical Tom also was starting to feel squirms of self-disgust. He’d never wanted to upset Henry- he just wanted to love Thomas! He didn’t see why one had to include the other. 

“No… I…” Henry grew fruitless and miserable, shifting upon his feet, “I just don’t understand and I’m not happy about it. Barrow is the one you were talking about all this time?” He repeated, “Barrow is Mary Malone?” 

“Yes.” Tom said. Henry sighed, sagging back down onto the window ledge so he could massage his head. He might have taken a puff of his cigarette but that was all dwindled to ash now. “We were passing notes around the house. That’s why he was the only one who knew. He was the recipient!” 

“And thats why you wanted Robert to come home first.” Henry mumbled in dawning comprehension, “Because you were going to tell us all you were having an affair with a man- with Barrow!” 

Henry was clearly at a loss on the subject, leaning back so that his head rested slightly against the outer brick of Knightsbridge. He needed to be careful, they were after all four stories up. They’d opened the window for fresh air, but there wasn’t enough fresh air in the world to thin out their current conversation. 

Tom didn’t know what to say but the truth: “I love him Henry. This isn’t an affair, it’s love.” 

Henry shook his head, silently asking for quiet. Tom gave it to him, and watched as Henry picked up his glass of scotch only to set it back down and push it away as if he thought he might be sick. 

“Are you angry at me?” Tom murmured, needing to know. 

“I’m… shocked.” Henry was just as honest as he. Tom listened intently as Henry looked out the window and onto the dark London streets; gas lights from down below illuminated the lower planes of Henry’s face, “I need time to think.” 

“I respect that.” Tom said. 

“Well thanks.” Henry sneered. He rose from the window ledge, and walked to the door to get some air, “Good to know you respect something-“ but before Tom could make a rebuttal Henry closed the door and cut Tom off. 

Tom sneered in the sudden silence that surrounded him, storming over to the couch and throwing himself upon it. He lay there staring up at the ornate ceiling of their shared sitting room, wishing he could follow after Henry and continue to argue with him. 

He checked his pocket watch. It was eleven p.m. 

“… Thirteen.” Tom muttered bitterly.   
Thirty five hours left to go. 

~*~

Secluded in his office, Thomas continued to run a constant mental check of every room in the abbey that Carson would no doubt inspect the minute he arrived. It was six in the morning, breakfast was yet to be served; upstairs Peter and Gertie were waking up the remaining house staff while outside Thomas hear the tell-tale sounds of Daisy and Anna arriving for the morning with William in tow. 

He had no idea what Lady Mary had said to Mr. Carson last night, only that the end result was Carson coming up to visit the abbey this morning for a thorough investigation of events. Thomas clutched the letter Tom had given to him upon parting; he’d opened it earlier to reveal that inside included fifteen pounds for travel and fair, along with detailed instructions on how to find Kieran Branson’s auto mechanic shop and a letter of agreement for Thomas to carry Sybbie so that he couldn’t be accused of kidnapping. Frankly, Thomas was much to afraid to take Sybbie alone to Liverpool. He had a feeling that, letter or no, if he got stopped he was going to be arrested for child endangerment and sent straight to York County Prison. No, the minute that Carson started digging and Lady Mary told him the whole tale, Thomas was going to be thrown out on his ear and Tom would have to come find him in the woods. The real question was how was Thomas going to make it alone for a day or two until Tom made it back? He supposed he could sleep out in the shack he’d found across the stream, and steal food from bins. 

Fuck, his life was a miserable thing. 

The phone began to ring, causing Thomas to jump in his swivel chair. Frightened for who might be on the other line (suspecting Carson and knowing he’d be in for a grilling), Thomas gingerly picked up the phone to timidly speak into the receiver: 

“Downton Abbey, this is Mr. Barrow the Butler-“ 

_“It’s me-“_ Tom’s warm voice automatically filled Thomas with relief and he sighed, sagging back into his chair, _“Are you safe?”_

“Oh Tom.” Thomas whimpered, “Carson’s coming up to visit today with Mrs. Hughes. Mary’s out for blood-“ 

_“Let me deal with Mary”_ Tom urged, _“If you can keep Carson off the scent, the rest will be fine.”_

“But Tom, I can’t take Sybbie to Liverpool,” He said, “If I get caught, I’ll be arrested for child endangerment- the family will call the police, you they know they will-! I’m going to be thrown out the minute Carson realizes what’s happened, you’ll have to come find me in the woods-!” 

_“Shh…”_ , Tom soothed. Thomas’ breath trembled in his chest. _“Listen to me, I am Sybbie’s father… if I give you permission, you are within perfect legal rights to take her to Liverpool. For god’s sake Kieran is her godfather. You’re not taking her to a stranger— and you’re not living in the woods for god’s sake. If you get fired, take the money and take Sybbie to Liverpool-!”_

“Oh yes-“ Thomas mumbled into his hand, “I’ll just walk right up the stairs and take her from the nursery-“ 

_“You have my explicit permission-“_

“I don’t think they’ll care, Tom.” Thomas sighed, “I think they’ll call the police if I try.” 

_“…Alright.”_ Tom did some fast thinking, _“Then you take the money and go to Liverpool yourself, and I’ll go home, collect Sybbie and meet you there. Simple enough!”_

But none of this was simple. Thomas couldn’t see himself using Tom’s money without being swallowed by shame and disgust. Somehow he had a feeling he’d simply leave the house without the money and wait in the woods till he thought of a better plan. He could never think on his feet. 

_“Listen to me.”_ Tom murmured soothingly, _“I told Henry, so he knows-“_

“Oh God!” Thomas blurted out in horror, “Why would you do that, Tom?” The list of people that would attend their public hanging was just growing and growing. 

_“Because the truth is always better than a lie.”_ Tom urged, _“Just keep it together darling—“_ but then a sudden noise on the other end of the phone gave Tom pause. _“I have to go. Henry is here and wants to talk. But I promise you as soon as I’m able I’m coming home.”_

“Hurry Tom.” Thomas wondered if the next time Tom called Thomas would even still be Butler. 

_“I love you. Goodbye.”_ The phone hung up and Thomas was left holding a silent receiver. He suddenly felt more alone than before Tom had called. 

“…Goodbye.” He mumbled though no one was there, and hung up the phone.

~*~

About a good two hundred miles away, Tom stroked the sweaty handle of his telephone and glanced at Henry who was in the sitting room door. He looked nervous, unsure, and hung back where before he’d often stride in and strike up cheery conversation. 

Tom’s untouched breakfast tray lay between them; he ferried it off to the left to be picked up by the day maid. 

“…May I talk with you?” Henry asked, softly. Tom shrugged, gesturing to the couch. Henry didn’t take a seat, instead merely closing the door to the hallway and taking a few steps inside. Exhausted by the silent struggle of dealing with a nervous Englishman, Tom took up his half-finished coffee cup and sat by the window ledge where (last night) Henry had perched. Outside Knightsbridge, there was a beautiful park where people could sit and stroll. The snows of winter were just starting to peel back, so that though they would no doubt be replaced for now there was a slight flush of green. 

Henry coughed, leaning against the back of the couch, “I’ve been thinking… all night. And morning.” 

Unsurprising. 

“You were… incredibly kind to me when no one else was.” Henry admitted softly. “You helped me to-“ Henry fished for the right words, “To understand my way when Mary wouldn’t even look at me.” 

“I like you Henry.” Tom assured him, but when Henry’s eyebrows shot up in alarm he had to add, “In a platonic way, damnit!” 

Henry chuckled nervously, but Tom hardly found any of this amusing. Why on earth did Henry think that Tom might like him in that way when he was in love with Thomas? This wasn’t a two-train track! He was perfectly happy with one man, thank you very much. 

“You’re a good man, and I respect you.” Tom admitted, now slightly begrudging when he considered all the irritations Henry was putting him through. 

“Not many do.” Henry admitted, “Perks of being an oily driver.” 

Tom snorted at the well known insult. Fuckin’ Larry Gray. 

“Well I can’t talk because I was the chauffeur.” Tom added, hoping to break the tension. It worked because Henry began to relax as he walked across the room and took a seat next to Tom on the window ledge. Now they were starting to act like good friends again; it warmed Tom’s heart. 

“I just…” Henry re-situated himself on the window ledge to be more comfortable. “I need to know that this isn’t some kind of weird…. stunt.” the word fell lamely off the tongue and made no sense to Tom. 

“Stunt?” 

“I don’t know.” Henry sighed, unable to express it better, “So kind of show against the system.” 

“No.” Tom grumbled, “I have no desire to make waves like that. I just want to be with the man I love. That’s all.” 

Henry looked first to the couch, then to the floor, then to Tom and then out the window. It was difficult to know what he was thinking. If he was at peace or if he was just gearing up for round two. Henry seemed lost and confused, like a little boy who’d been given bad directions. 

“…Okay.” He finally said, sounding very unsure but unable to put up much of a fight.

“Are you on my side?” Tom asked, needing to know for certain where Henry stood. “Henry?” 

“I mean-“ Henry mumbled, suddenly unable to look Tom in the eye as he flushed, “I’m not against you. I’m not for you but I’m not against you. I’m not going to get involved in this fight.” 

Tom supposed he couldn’t have hoped for much better. He imagined even the best of his friends would feel the same way. Maybe over time Henry would relax but… for now…? 

But then Henry surprised him, quite deeply, as he looked up from the floor with a solemn expression: “I don’t understand this, Tom. But I am on your side… I just wish this had never happened. I don’t want it to get out to the papers or the village. If we can keep it private- keep it in the family- then everything should be okay. That’s how I feel.” 

“Thank you, Henry.” Tom whispered. It meant more than Henry probably knew for him to be so kind. “Thank you.” 

~*~

9 a.m…. Breakfast done and dusted as Lady Mary took a tray in her room and refused to speak to Thomas until Mr. Carson arrived. There wasn’t much for the staff to do, with only one family member to care for. To keep them occupied, Thomas decided to put them on the strenuous task of cleaning both sitting and tea rooms. The maids dusted, swept, and cleaned- Andy and Peter polished the silver downstairs at the table… Thomas oversaw it all, constantly checking his pocket watch _(1925, Conquered)_ to see that Mr. Carson’s arrival was unnervingly close. Thomas checked his appearance in his office mirror one last time, and noted that despite looking incredibly pale and clammy he still wasn’t showing the internal nervous breakdown that he was suffering. 

Nice to know he could keep up appearances. 

Thomas walked back out into the servants hall and watched Andy polish silver. He wasn’t the best but he wasn’t the worst and he was a good example for Peter to follow. Peter kept messing up, losing his grip on his polishing cloth without the know-how to reason that he needed to wrap the clothe around his fingers. 

Thomas took the initiative, bending over to take Peter’s hand in both his own in order to wrap the clothe correctly. Peter’s fingers were small and slim compared to his own- he was shocked to reason just how old he was. To know That Peter wasn’t even fifteen. 

“Very good, you’re doing excellent, Peter.” Thomas murmured as Peter began to buff away dirt from a silver vase. Peter flushed with slightest pride, “You’ll soon be able to be a footman.” 

“Do you think so, Mr. Barrow?” Peter said hopefully. Thomas could appreciate the struggle- he too had once been a hall boy and desperate to get up the ladder. 

“I know so.” Thomas assured him. God only knows in ten years houses might not even be able to employ hall boys. The sudden sound of the backdoor bell ringing made Thomas’ heart leap into his throat. It seemed his time was up. 

Thomas took a long slow breath, reasoning that no matter what happened in the next couple of hours, it could not be worse than the day Thomas had been kicked out of his family home and beaten upon the back step by his father while sobbing for mercy. 

“That’ll be Mr. Carson.” Thomas said, “Keep your chin up, straighten your tie.” He ordered to both Andy and Peter, who immediately did as they were told. Thomas walked down the hall, and reached the back door to unlock it and open it wide. There, upon the back step, was Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes. Both seemed perplexed as to why they’d been called, even wary, but Mrs. Hughes offered him a loving smile all the same. 

“Mr. Barrow.” Mr. Carson addressed him, pushing past him to get through the door. 

“Mr. Carson.” Thomas stepped aside to let Mrs. Hughes in, “May I take your coats?” 

“That’s very kind.” Mrs. Hughes shrugged out of her dark blue pea coat; Thomas took it at once to hang it up on a peg strap. Mr. Carson shrugged out of his own coat and hat, smoothing his iron grey hair back to fix Thomas with a disgruntled eye. In the month that had passed since Mr. Carson’s retirement, Thomas had forgotten just how large and imposing the man was. 

Thomas’ own father had been about six foot five, hardly small with broad shoulders and a sharp angular jaw. He’d been unnervingly hard in tone and at times had made Thomas feel lower than dirt just by glancing at him or saying simple things like ‘pass the salt’ at dinner. Mr. Carson was just the same, probably about the same height and certainly large in the chest and shoulders. His drawling voice filled Thomas with dread as he realized eventually Mr. Carson was going to learn everything that had happened in his absence. 

And Thomas would have to endure another October 20th, 1919. 

“I’d like to get to work straight away.” Mr. Carson ordered, leading the march from the hallway to the servant’s hall, “Lady Mary was most distressed over the phone. She seemed to insist the house was falling apart.” 

Nope, no House of Usher here- just sodomy in the bedroom. 

“Then by all means, Mr. Carson.” Thomas swept a hand about the calm servant’s hall where Andy and Peter sat polishing. The moment they saw Mr. Carson they jerked out of their chairs, only to be waved back down into sitting and resuming their work. “Observe.” 

Peter polished with much more gusto, clearly trying to impress. Andy just kept his head down, working carefully on an antique biscuit holder. 

“You’re doing a fine job, Peter.” Mrs. Hughes praised. 

“Thank you Mrs. Hughes.” 

“We’re cleaning the tea rooms and sitting rooms today while Lady Mary take her tea in the library.” Thomas said, as Mr. Carson walked into the kitchen, still looking for errant signs of failure. “I’ve got the maids on duty till after luncheon.” 

As they entered the kitchen, Mrs. Patmore looked around from where she was making a simple lunch of salmon and salad. With only Lady Mary to attend to, she was able to cook in less generous proportions. 

“Mrs. Hughes! Mr. Carson!” Mrs. Patmore beamed, coming around her island to smile at her old time friends. Even Mr. Carson in his irritation seemed mildly pleased to see her. “Well this is a sight for sore eyes.” 

“Oh it is good to see you!” Mrs. Hughes clasped her hands, “How is everyone getting on?” 

“Very well.” Mrs. Patmore said, gesturing about the kitchen to where Daisy was bathing salmon in a brown sauce while Gertie tossed a salad. “Mr. Barrow and I have been running it all quite smoothly.” 

“Have you indeed.” Mr. Carson drawled. Mrs. Patmore did a double take, offended at being called out for no reason, “Lady Mary seemed to insist otherwise over the phone last night.” 

“Well.” Mrs. Patmore snorted, not sharing Mr. Carson’s adoration of the eldest Crawley daughter, “She’s been eating my pudding, an no mistake. Where’d this come from?” She asked of Thomas. Thomas said absolutely nothing for a moment, watching as Daisy continued to bathe the fish in sauce. When the truth came out, she would no doubt be thrown into the spotlight as the sole witness. Would she be able to handle the strain? 

“Lady Mary wants to be soothed, Mrs. Patmore.” Thomas’ tongue felt numb around the words. 

“As is her right,” Mr. Carson added irritably. 

“Far be it from me to deny the blessed Lady Mary, but she certainly hasn’t been complaining before now.” Mrs. Patmore grumbled, returning her attentions to the salmon. 

“We’ll see about that.” Mr. Carson would not be put off. He took Thomas’ key ring without asking and walked around the entirety of the kitchen to open the side cupboard door. Inside he could see the stocks of cooking supplies like spare pots and knives. The things one usually brought out for a massive event like a wedding or a funeral. “Is the pantry being maintained?” Mr. Carson demanded. 

The pantry was down the hall across from the boiler room; he’d no doubt check it by the end of his visit. 

“Yes it is.” Mrs. Patmore grumbled. Little did Mr. Carson know that Thomas had given her the keys a week into being butler and hadn’t regretted it since. If Mrs. Hughes found that out (or Mr. Carson) Thomas would be shouted down from the rafters. 

“And the stock wares-“ Given that Mr. Carson was now knee deep in the stock wares that should be rather obvious. 

“Yes.” 

“And the cupboards-“ 

“Mr. Carson-“ Mrs. Patmore had only had him around for about fifteen minutes and was already irritated. “If you want to look about, feel free- but I have a dinner to make and I can’t very well make it with you snooping in!” 

“A watched pot never boils.” Mrs. Hughes added helpfully from the island where Daisy had fetched her a cup of tea. Mr. Carson scowled at his wife. 

“Ever the voice of reason.” Mrs. Patmore was soothed to have her friend back. 

“We’ll move on.” Mrs. Hughes said, clearly assured that all was as it should be below stairs. “Thank you Mrs. Patmore.” 

Mr. Carson locked the store room back, completely unaware that Mrs. Patmore had her own set of keys hiding in her apron pocket. The three of them headed back out into the hall and arrived at the foot of the stairs to head to the main floor. Yet as they made to go up they were suddenly impeded by Anna coming down. She had one of Lady Mary’s night gowns over her arm, clearly in need of a mend, and looked very nervous indeed when she spotted her old employers at the foot of the stairs. 

“Anna.” Mr. Carson greeted her. 

“Mr. Carson.” Anna mumbled. She wouldn’t meet Thomas’ eye. 

_Christ she knows_ , Thomas suddenly realized. Anna seemed to realize just why it is that Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes were there, and her ominous lack of cheer brought a dark mood upon the already grim conversation. 

“I trust you knew we were coming?” Mr. Carson asked. Anna’s lips were a thin white line. 

“Lady Mary told me to expect you, yes.” she said. 

“I wonder if I might have a word with you in my— old office-“ Carson caught himself just in time. 

“Of course, Mr. Carson.” 

So it was that whatever room Mr. Carson wanted to explore next was put off for an impromptu interrogation as Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes walked Anna back to Thomas’ office. Thomas followed, the last in line, only to be held up as Daisy stepped out of the kitchen looking quite nervous. 

“What’s happened?” Daisy asked, watching the trio enter Thomas’ office to close the door. 

“Hell on earth.” Thomas whispered. If only he could tell Daisy all the details here and now. But Daisy seemed to realize something was truly wrong, for her face drained of blood as she clutched her stirring spoon like a lifeline. 

“Cor.” She whispered, “Do they know?” 

“If they don’t they will soon.” 

“It weren’t me, Thomas!” She begged, eyes wide and pleading, “I swear it-“ 

‘“I know it weren’t.” He found it oddly endearing that she was so eager to prove herself his confidant. 

“Then who were it?” 

“…..Lady Mary.” Thomas said.   
Daisy went white. 

Mrs. Hughes poked her head out of his office, searching for him in the hallway. 

“Mr. Barrow-“ She urged, her voice clipped with disapproval, “Hurry along.” 

Daisy watched him go, clutching at the door to the kitchen as Thomas slipped into his office and Mrs. Hughes closed the door. His final image of her was her chewing of her knuckle like a babe might a pacifier, positively sweating for his sake. He did not know why it touched him so, only to say that he doubted anyone else would give half a damn for his troubles in that moment. 

Mr. Carson had only been back in Thomas’ office for five minutes and he was already re-arranging things on the desk. He shifted Thomas’ ink pens aside, carefully moving the monthly planner back to center stage from where Thomas usually kept it off to the right. 

Thomas’ eye twitched, somehow finding this incredibly irritating. 

Anna would not look at Thomas but instead kept her head bowed, her fingers clasped before her and her lips sealed shut. Mrs. Hughes came around the pair of them to stand behind Mr. Carson. Like so often before, she put her hands upon his shoulders in show of support. 

“I won’t beat about the bush, Anna.” Mr. Carson warned, “There has been a disturbance or so Lady Mary says. Do you know what this disturbance might be?” 

Thomas closed his eyes, waiting for the downfall. 

“I think I might, Mr. Carson.” 

“And what is it?” 

“Lady Mary told me she saw something that disturbed her. Something to do with Mr. Barrow but she didn’t say what.” 

_I’ll hide out in the woods till Tom gets home_. Thomas decided. _I won’t even bother grabbing my things from my room. It’ll only waste time. I’ll head for that shack in the woods_. 

“Have you seen anything you find suspicious?” Mr. Carson asked. Anna shook her head. 

“No, Mr. Carson, nothing out of the ordinary.” She admitted, “We’ve all been getting on, or so I’d though, but… something changed the other night. When I went to dress Lady Mary the Friday morning, she was very upset.” 

“But she didn’t say what she saw.” Mr. Carson continued on, fingertips placed together in thought. 

“No, Mr. Carson.” Anna admitted. “She seemed to insist it wasn’t for me to hear. That it was private.” 

“I see.” Mr. Carson did not sound soothed by the prospect. “Thank you, Anna. That will be all.” 

Anna nodded her head, turning to leave. As she did so, she caught Thomas’ eyes if only for the smallest second. Her gaze was full of wary regard, as if they were back to the old days when Thomas had been suspected of everything from theft to treachery in the house. Months of progress shot to hell, and for what? Good to know people believed in change and honest intentions, around here. 

“Well.” Mr. Carson said as Anna closed the door. Now before Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes, Thomas found himself sweating bullets. 

_Keep your eyes on the floor_. He thought, _Don’t make eye contact or they’ll know_. 

“I leave the house for your care in one month and the whole thing falls into shambles.” Mr. Carson huffed, angrily. 

“What did Lady Mary see that brought her so much distress, Mr. Barrow?” Mrs. Hughes asked. Thomas knew that she was watching him closely waiting for him to meet her eyes. The fact that he wouldn’t was probably a dead give away, but Thomas knew the moment he made eye contact they’d be able to see the fear on his face and would know for a fact something was wrong. 

“I can’t say.” Thomas said, in as calm a tone as he could manage. 

“And why can’t you say?” Mr. Carson sneered, shifting on his chair. 

“Because I’m not Lady Mary.” It was the best excuse he could come up with on the turn of a pin. 

“What did you do Thursday night?” Mr. Carson asked, “Tell me your activities.” 

_Served dinner, committed sodomy, got caught with my testicles out, cried myself to sleep_. 

“I served dinner, oversaw the closing up for the night, finished some paperwork, and went to bed.” Thomas lied. To be fair it was what he’d done on _Tuesday night_ , but still. 

“What hour did you turn in?” Mr. Carson asked, warily. The fact of the matter was Thomas didn’t rightly know, but it had to have been after midnight. 

“I’d say… around… 1:30… 2:00.” Thomas admitted. 

“So late?” Mr. Carson drawled, suspicion thick in his voice. 

“I found it difficult to sleep,” _because I was crying my eyes out and my anus was burning from recent sodomy_. 

“Why?” 

“I can’t say.” 

“Again with the vague answers.” Mr. Carson cut him off, waving a hand irritably about the air as if batting off gnats. “I won’t say I’m surprised, but I am disappointed in you. I thought I could entrust the house to you-“ 

“And you can, Mr. Carson-!” Thomas could not help the wave of irritation he’d felt when he’d been doing so well as butler. He’d only just started feeling confident in his skill set. Honestly, besides Thursday night he hadn’t tripped up! “Look about! Nothing is out of place. Nothing is being run afoul. Go upstairs, look around. Nothing is left undone!” 

“If everything is as you say it is, then why did Lady Marry call me in such a tizzy?” Mr. Carson’s voice was starting to get a hard and ugly tinge to it, comparable to all the times he’d shouted Thomas down and called him vile. Thomas braced himself for the worst. 

“I cannot say!” Thomas cried out. 

“Cannot say or will not say?!” 

“Look about the house!” Was all Thomas could tell him to do, “If you find something wrong bring it to my attention and I’ll right it at once-“ 

“I’m sure the house if being run well.” Mrs. Hughes assuaged him, desperate to keep the argument down before it escalated further, “But if you don’t know what Lady Mary saw, then perhaps we should ask her and come to the bottom of it-“ 

“No!” Thomas blurted out. Both Mrs. Hughes and Mr. Carson gave him queer looks, “I- I don’t want to trouble her anymore.” 

Mr. Carson leaned back heavily in Thomas’ swivel chair, causing it to squeak unnecessarily. The silence between them shuddered on the brink of a knife. 

“And why would we be troubling her?” Mr. Carson drawled. 

“…She’s… been upset lately.” Thomas fumbled with the lie even as he said it. 

“Why?” Mr. Carson drawled again. 

“I’m unsure, something to do with Mr. Talbot and Mr. Branson.” Thomas swallowed thickly, “It’s not my place to know so I… I don’t ask.” 

For a long moment, Mr. Carson said nothing and merely drummed his fat fingers upon the desk before him. He was wary, thinking carefully, giving away nothing. Then, he rose to his feet and straightened the bottom of his vest so that his suit was stiff once more without a wrinkle. 

“I’ll go to Lady Mary now and see what this mess is about.” Mr. Carson decided. Thomas resisted the urge to burst into frustrated tears with the knowledge of what he was about to uncover. “Mark my words, Mr. Barrow, if she tells me anything amiss… I will be most aggrieved.” 

He’d never heard a more menacing word in his life. 

Mr. Carson left, closing the door with a curt snap behind him. Now Thomas and Mrs. Hughes were left alone, and Thomas stumbled around the desk to sit back down in his chair before his legs gave out beneath him. Now it was only a matter of minutes: Mr. Carson was going to go upstairs, ask Lady Mary, and hear the whole sorry tale. He’d come right back down, horsewhip Thomas against the banister, and cast him out into the streets. 

And possibly call the police. 

“…Now then.” Mrs. Hughes drew up the chair which normally sat on the other side of his desk, bringing it around the side so that they could huddle side by side. Thomas buried his face in his hands, taking long, slow, shuddering breathes. “Will you tell me what’s happened?” 

Thomas shook his head in his arms, petrified. Mrs. Hughes said nothing, but Thomas could tell that she was growing more worried by the minute. He’d never meant to cause her grief. 

“I’m just tired, Mrs. Hughes.” Thomas sat up to wipe at his eyes, frustrated, “I’m just very tired.” 

“You’re the butler. You’re allowed to be tired.” Mrs. Hughes patted his hand sympathetically. Thomas sniffed, looking out his lone window to the tree that held the robin’s nest. Tiny buds were starting to grow back on the tips of the branches. 

Thomas wiped hastily at his eyes again, only able to use one hand as Mrs. Hughes clasped and patted the other. 

“I’ve decided something for you.” Mrs. Hughes offered, clearly trying for optimism in the darkest of moments. Thomas wondered if he’d hear Mr. Carson screaming in horror all the way below stairs. “I want to promote Ms. Baxter to become the new Housekeeper. You two work so well together, and it’ll mean better pay for her now that she’s to be wed to Mr. Moseley. What do you think?” 

If he’d only been in a better situation, he might have been happy. The idea of working side by side with Baxter was the best case scenario; but as it stood, Thomas highly doubted he was still going to be butler after today. 

“Whatever you decide, I will respect.” Thomas whisper, voice hoarse with strain. 

“You don’t seem very happy.” She said, worried. Thomas still wouldn’t look at her, instead staring at the tree outside. He thought of the birds long gone, of their nest left to rot on a tree branch. Of hatching eggs he’d never see. 

“I find it hard to be happy.” and it was the bitter truth. Mrs. Hughes squeezed his hand kindly, but said no more. 

For a good fifteen minutes, the pair of them sat in silence. Mrs. Hughes did not make to get up and leave; Thomas did not turn around and speak. He waited, terrified, for what would undoubtably come. 

And then- Thomas heard the sounds of heavy feet marching upon the stairs. 

He knew Mrs. Hughes would be able to feel his hand shaking. Knew that it would be pointless to hide his terror as Mr. Carson opened the door and stomped back into the room. 

But to Thomas’ shock, he did not seem nearly as angry as Thomas had thought he would be. He merely seemed irritated and nothing more. 

Thomas waited with baited breath, sweat dripping down his neck beneath his starched collar. 

“I’ve spoken with Lady Mary.” Mr. Carson grumbled, “And she will not tell me what she saw.” 

_Oh Jesus_ , Thomas wanted to whimper but kept his mouth shut. So it seemed he’d dodged an incredible bullet. But why had Lady Mary chosen not to tell Mr. Carson, or Anna (who was so usually her confidant)? It didn’t make sense to Thomas but he wasn’t about to go against his good luck. 

“She merely told me that it had to do with you and Mr. Branson, and a friendship you two had apparently formed that was most improper.” Mr. Carson didn’t seem capable of imagining the full truth, and so was content hypothesizing that Thomas and Tom were now causing havoc in the abbey playing pranks. If only. 

“You will remember your place as butler in the future, and keep your distance from the family respectable.” Mr. Carson ordered. 

“I’m sure it wasn’t meant in jest.” Mrs. Hughes added in Thomas’ defense. 

“Even so.” Mr. Carson warned. “Remember the charge I’ve left you in, Mr. Barrow. It is more important than any friendship.” 

But Thomas did not agree. As much as Thomas loved the children and the estate, he loved Tom more. In a battle between loyalties, Tom would win every time. 

Instead of feeling relief at his reprieve, Thomas just felt sick to his stomach. Exhausted. Like he wanted to lay down in a cool dark room for the rest of the month and not come out till he was good and ready. If Lady Mary had thought calling in Mr. Carson was a punishment, she’d been spot on. 

“I will admit the house is being run impeccably well, despite this one hiccup. I am pleased, I must say. You have done me proud.” Mr. Carson added, dark undertones slipping away as his concerns were finally soothed. Thomas could not meet his eyes as he sat slumped at the desk, unable to even rise as Mrs. Hughes came to her husbands side and linked her arm in his. “I trust Mrs. Hughes has told you the news?” 

“Just now.” Mrs. Hughes said, “He’s taking a moment to digest it.” 

Christ, that was a way of putting it. Thomas felt like he was digesting a cannon ball for all the horror he’d felt in the past twenty four hours. 

“Ms. Baxter will do well in the position.” Mr. Carson said, “It’ll mean more work, but more pay, and it’ll be easier to find a Lady’s Maid than a housekeeper. You will put out an add and inform Lady Grantham tonight. Telephone them in their Paris house. the number should be in my date book.” 

Thomas failed to mention that it was now technically _his_ date book, still unsure if he could trust his voice. 

Thomas noticed that Mr. Carson was clearly waiting on him to give some sort of an answer, and though he would not meet Mr. Carson’s eyes he finally gathered enough strength to rise to his feet and bid him a short “Yes, Mr. Carson.” before sitting back down. 

“I warn, you Thomas.” Mr. Carson said, voice soft once more in ominous tone, “Put one more toe out of lie, and I will be back up here to set you straight.” 

_And call the police_ , Thomas thought bitterly. Surely the truth would eventually get out. He didn’t know why Lady Mary had chosen not to tell Carson but one day he had a feeling she wouldn’t be so generous. 

The fact that he was being forced to admit this was generosity was making him feel nauseas. 

 

Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes stayed for quite a bit, enjoying the time to catch up with the staff and look the house over top to bottom. By the time they left it was past noon, and Lady Mary informed Mr. Carson she would be dining with the Dowager that night. With the promise of a solid night off, Thomas allowed the remaining staff to take the night off. Apparently there was a Saint Valentines fair in Thirsk- nothing to really write home about but it did boast a patisserie competition and everyone was eager to indulge. Anna even took little William, bundled up from head to toe and popped inside Miss Sybbie’s old pram. They were driven by the chauffeur after he returned from taking Lady Mary to the Dowager’s, and suddenly the house was dead silent. Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes left with the others, so that Thomas was the only man in the entire house until the chauffeur returned with Lady Mary in tow around nine at night. Thomas had promised Mrs. Patmore that he’d go to the pub for his dinner. The fact of the matter was he’d done nothing for the past nine hours but sit at his desk and stare off into space, feeling almost in shock for how awful the day had been. 

One servant returned, and then another. Mrs. Patmore was the first, then Anna. The others still weren’t back yet, clearly having far more fun than ought to be lawful. It was only when Anna went up to check on Lady Mary that Thomas remembered he was supposed to have called the Grantham’s house in Paris in order to alert Baxter that she’d gotten the job of housekeeper. 

Thomas fumbled with Mr. Carson’s date book, finding it in the second drawer on the left of his desk. Making a ‘trunk call’ and ringing Paris was incredibly difficult, forcing him to go through three different operators just to get to the right extension. God only knows what calling a house overseas would cost for a working class man; Thomas knew he’d have to keep this conversation short. It took twenty three minutes just to get through all the operators and all the extensions. As the phone finally- _mercifully_ \- began to ring on the right line, Thomas found his breathing becoming labored in his chest. He realized he would now have to speak to Baxter. He wondered if he would be able to hear her voice and now mentally collapse. 

_“La Maison du Grantham, c’est Monsieur Dumond-“_

Thomas summoned what French he could remember: “Bonsoir c’est majordome du Lord Grantham, Thomas Barrow. Puis-je s’il vous plaît parler avec mademoiselle Baxter?” 

_“Mr. Barrow,”_ Monsieur Dumond was quick to change over to English though he still had a thick accent, _“Just one moment please.”_

Thomas rubbed at his sweating brow with trembling fingertips, his chest aching from anxiety. He could already tell that he was going to lose it, talking to Baxter. He had a feeling this phone conversation wasn’t going to be short. 

After a slight pause, the phone was picked up again, and Thomas’ heart leapt in his chest painfully as the voice of Phyllis Baxter took over the line: 

_“Mr. Barrow!”_ she was clearly delighted to hear from him, _“It’s so good to hear from you! Why are you calling?”_

“You’ve been uh… promoted.” Thomas wished he could offer her more sincere congratulations, “To housekeeper. That’s why I’ve called. To tell you of your promotion if you accept it.” 

_“You’re joking!”_ she swore, shocked at her change of fortune. 

“No. No I’m not.” Thomas ground out, teeth clenched tight. 

_Do not break down, do not break down_ , he inwardly berated himself, even as his bottom lip trembled. It was horribly selfish of him to want to spoil Ms. Baxter’s good time- to want to cry and beg her for advice when he had no right to ask anything of anyone. 

_“… Are you alright?”_ Ms. Baxter asked, sounding quite concerned all of a sudden. 

That genuine regard for his welfare was enough to make his facade crack like an egg. Thomas blubbered, well aware Baxter would be able to hear it on the phone. 

“No.” He choked out, “No, I’m no-“ but he couldn’t even form the ’t’, breaking into ugly haggard sobs as he slumped into his chair and shook like a leaf. 

_“Oh my god-“_ Baxter panicked, _“What’s going on? Where are you?”_

“Th- the office-“ Thomas could barely form words. 

_“Is anyone else there?”_ She demanded. 

“No…” Thomas didn’t want to go to anyone, didn’t want to tell anyone anything though Mrs. Patmore was surely just outside in the kitchen and Anna was upstairs turning down Lady Mary’s bed. “No, they’re at a- at a- at a fair!” 

He cried plaintively, suddenly wishing more than anything that Baxter was here in the flesh. That anyone was here who could protect him. But as soon as Baxter knew what had occurred, even she would be too disgusted to help him. He cried even harder- suddenly finding it difficult to draw adequate breath. 

He was about to have an anxiety attack, he could feel it. 

_“Shh…”_ She tried to sooth him over the phone, _“Shh, calm down. Calm down. It’s alright. I’m right here. I’m listening-“_ she said, just as she’d done when Thomas had tried to kill himself in July, _“Don’t hang up the phone, don’t panic, just tell me what’s happened. Tell me what’s wrong.”_

“I c-c-c-can’t.” Thomas stuttered. 

_“Why ever not?”_ she implored gently. 

“Because you’ll hate me.” Thomas yanked out his handkerchief, using the desk to keep the base of the phone steady as he wiped his face free of mucus and tears. He’d have to wash his handkerchief it was so sodden. “You’ll all hate me. All I wanted was to be loved- and you’ll hate me-“ 

_“No one hates you!”_ she urged, _“I don’t hate you! I love you! I love you very much and right now I’m terrified to think of you sitting all alone in that office crying your eyes out. So please for heaven’s sake, tell me what’s wrong?”_

“I can’t…” He moaned into his handkerchief. It muffled his sobs temporarily. 

_“You can.”_ Baxter urged softly. _“You can, I won’t judge you.”_

“I can’t…” He just couldn’t pluck up the courage. He just couldn’t say, even if on some amazing stroke of luck Baxter wouldn’t hate him… he just couldn’t. He was too shamed, too repressed. Too broken. 

_“Please don’t cry.”_ she murmured empathetically, _“Please. Please take comfort in my words. No one hates you, certainly not I.”_

_“What’s going on?”_ Thomas heard beyond Baxter’s voice- the sound of John Bates. 

Thomas wiped his face and eyes again, desperately trying to cover up the emotion in his voice. 

“I’m sorry Phyllis.” He mumbled softly. “I’m sorry I’m just really tired. I’m sorry.” He sniffed haggardly, wiping at his face and eyes again, “I’m sorry.” He breathed long and hard through his mouth, trying to calm his heart rate down. “You’ve- you’ve been promoted to housekeeper, and when you come back you can find a new butler.” 

_“Why would I have to find a new butler?”_ Baxter demanded, fast. 

“I have to go, Phyllis.” Thomas knew that the longer he stayed on the phone line, the higher the phone bill would be. “I have to go-“ 

_“No-!”_ her voice was hard and commanding, frightened. _“No, do not hang up the phone-“_

But Thomas did not answer, holding the phone over the receiver ready to drop it even as he heard Baxter crying out his name, begging him, _“Thomas, NO!”_

Thomas hung up the phone, practically slamming it down so that it made an odd jingling noise. 

 

Thomas dropped his head upon the desk, sniveling. 

For a good half hour, he sat there weeping into his desk, desperately trying to get a hold of himself. His mind kept skipping to images of impending doom, making it impossible for him to calm without starting into another spin. He felt certain that at any moment he would combust. That he would explode into a thousand stars and nothing would be able to hold him together. No lover, no doctor, no psychiatrist, no friend. 

But then, just as Thomas was beginning to contemplate the thought of razors and bathtubs, the telephone began to ring. 

Thomas’ head jerked up off the desk. 

He wiped his face upon his already soiled handkerchief, coughing repeatedly to try and clear his throat of mucus as he picked up the phone and attempted to speak professionally again. 

“Downton Abbey, this is Mr. Barrow the-“ 

_“Thomas this is Lord Grantham.”_ Came Lord Grantham’s voice from the other end. His heart plummeted into his stomach. _“What’s going on?”_

He wondered how Lord Grantham had come to call him in such a state of panic. Had Baxter told Bates that he’d hung up the phone crying? Had they assumed the worst- that he was spiraling into another suicide attempt? 

“I-“ Thomas stuttered, horrified at being caught out in such a vulnerable position, “N-n-n-n-nothing M’lord. I just- I just had a moment of weakness. I consider it very unprofessional, I appolog-“ 

_“As I say,”_ Lord Grantham cut him off, still sounding greatly concerned, _“You’re alright? You’ve not harmed yourself in any way?”_

“N-no, M’lord.” Thomas cheeks flushed rosy in shame. So it seemed for the past half hour Baxter had been trying to get back into touch with him; speeding past operators to make sure she’d caught him in time. 

_“I wish to speak to Lady Mary.”_ Lord Grantham said. _“Please put her on the phone.”_   
Thomas froze, fingers dripping with renewed sweat around the telephone receiver. 

This is it. he thought in horror, This is how it ends. 

“…M’lord.” Thomas whispered, and slowly sat the phone down on the desk.   
He rose up, wiping his eyes. 

He knew he looked a wreck as he exited his office, and did not bother meeting Mrs. Patmore’s eyes as he passed the door to the kitchen. He mounted the stairs one by one, counting the ways his world was about to fall apart. As he reached the top, the idea of suicide was so incredibly tempting that Thomas could not bear the thought of even going near a bathroom lest he do the unthinkable. His mind kept bouncing from panic to the memory of Tom sucking at his scars in a frenzy, begging him never to attempt suicide again. He’d made a promise to the man he loved; he did not want to break it. 

As he passed through the green baize door, he nearly ran headlong into Anna who was coming down the stairs. 

“Thomas?” She seemed shocked at the state in which she found him. 

“Where is Lady Mary.” Thomas said, a ghost of a whisper from his raspy throat. 

“I-in the library.” Anna said; he’d never heard her stutter before. “Thomas what’s wrong-“ 

But he pushed past her, in a daze as he tottered across the main hall to the library door. Anna watched him from the green baize door, clearly concerned. But Lord Grantham was waiting on the phone line and Thomas could not delay any longer. As he came to the library door he opened it to reveal Lady Mary upon the large red couch before a roaring fire, reading a book of French poetry. She had a cup of tea, no doubt brought to her by Anna, and George was sleeping upon her lap sucking on his thumb. Thomas could not bear to look at him, so heartbroken for affection. She paused, glancing up at Thomas. The glare upon her face was murderous. 

“… Lord Grantham is on the telephone for you, M’lady.” Thomas mumbled, staring down at his shoes so as not to face the ugly wrath upon her face. 

“…Very good, Barrow.” She said, her tone absolutely frigid. “I’ll take it in here.” 

Lord Grantham had a telephone upon his desk in the corner of the library; Thomas wondered if the chord would reach Lady Mary to where she sat upon the couch. He fetched it for her, hands slipping upon the candlestick from all the sweat on his palms. The telephone just barely reached, the chord stretched tight, and Thomas set it down upon the side table before backing up several steps so as not to be in the same breathing space as Lady Mary. Even so, she glared at him, raising an eyebrow testily; Thomas realized that she didn’t want to speak to her father in front of him and bowed his head demurely to back out of the library. Yet as he reached the door, something compelled Thomas not to close it all the way. To be able to listen through the crack to what Lady Mary said. 

He was petrified. His ability to make smart decisions was failing him. 

“Papa…” Lady Mary had picked up the phone only to pause for a moment, “Yes, there’s been some to-do.”   
Another lengthy pause. “I don’t doubt it. A great deal has happened.” 

A short pause, “Well, I’d better leave it to him to tell you, but you ought to come home and deal with it. It might mean a trip cut short, but this business requires your immediate input.” 

A stiff pause, “It is most foul I assure you. And what is more, it involves a member of the family.”   
An ugly pause, “He does. He truly does.” 

And that was the end. The telephone was hung up. 

Thomas staggered away from the library door clutching at his heart. It suddenly felt like it was beating out of control, zipping with pain that made it difficult to draw adequate breath. Lord Grantham was on his way home from France. When he got here, what would Thomas say to him to explain Lady Mary’s ominous words? How would he be able to look the man in the face and tell him the god’s honest ugly truth? From bringing in Carson to wring Thomas’ neck to giving Thomas a good week to sweat over Lord Grantham’s return, Lady Mary was clearly sadistic when it came to punishing those she thought deserved it. 

Thomas suddenly realized why Lady Edith had had such a miserable life. 

His feet were carrying him away from the green baize door, which was the direction he ought to actually be going. For some reason he was instead stumbling out the Entrance Hall, drawing ever nearer to the front door. He suddenly realized why he was so determined not to head back upstairs; that as soon as he drew close enough to the bathroom instinct would take over and he would attempt suicide. It was his body’s defense kicking in, physically moving him away from the source that would try to end his life if he let it. 

That, and he wanted fresh air. 

Thomas pushed the front door open with all his might; it was still unlocked. Outside, the sky was black and menacing, rippling with thunder and lightning. Clearly it was about to storm, clouds heavy with rain overhead yet to fall. Thomas collapsed upon the steps, sweating and trembling as he took one breath then another. He felt incredibly detached from the physical world in that moment. The gravel beneath his feet, the smooth and dirty stone under his hands… the stormy weather overhead, brought on by a lieu of slightly warmer weather colliding with the renewed cold. 

A massive peal of thunder nearly roused Thomas from his coma-like state, but as the wind pitched and furled about him he remained unmoving upon the stone. 

He’d become like a statue in panic, unable to even scream. 

And then, the rain began to fall. 

It was gradual, starting off gentle and then picking up until it was practically hammering onto the ground. Slush was bit at by the drops, depleting till everything was covered in a frigidly cold water that would no doubt freeze over into ice when the temperature dropped again. 

Thomas rose up on wobbly legs, staring out at the darkness around him.   
It was incredibly similar to the darkness that had surrounded him in his suicide attempt. When he’d awoken in a frigid bathtub- with water just as cold as this. It was like he was being swallowed by the memory of his near death. Like he’d never be able to escape it. 

Baxter was in France.   
There was only one person Thomas could go to that was still in England… and she was probably asleep in her cottage by this point. Thomas could not go to Liverpool with Tom’s money. There was no honor in it, and he could not take Sybbie with him. He would be arrested for child endangerment. 

The decision was practically made for him.   
When he bolted, he was like a deer running from a hunter’s gun. 

Thomas flew across the yard, rain muddying the ground beneath him till his shoes and trouser legs were sopping. He’d left the front door open but he didn’t care. He hadn’t locked up for the night but he didn’t care. He hadn’t given any excuses, any explanations, but he didn’t care. At that moment his sense of self-preservation was the only thing keeping him away from the upstairs bathroom, and he had a feeling that the moment he returned to Downton he would be attempting suicide in any way that he could. He had to keep his promise to Tom he had to stay alive- and there was only one woman on the land mass of Great Britain that Thomas trusted to help him. 

He rain through the rain, wind, lightning, and thunder. His livery grew soaked in mere minutes; by the time that he was even remotely close to the Carson’s cottage he was practically swimming in his clothes. The pomade had run out of his hair, making the back of his neck feel oddly sticky. His hair was plastered to his face, almost obscuring his eyes for how long it was. His heart pounded wildly in his chest, his brain practically doing a merry-go-round in its panic. If Mrs. Hughes wasn’t home- if she didn’t answer the door- Thomas knew what was going to happen. He was going to kill himself. He was going to die. He was unsure of how it was going to happen, whether he would fling himself into the local lake or jump in front of a train… but he knew it was going to happen. He would not be able to keep his promise to Tom. 

And that terrified him. 

Like a beacon in the night, a flash of life before death, the Carson’s cottage loomed into view through the howling wind and rain. The lights were on, glowing warm and steady through the dark; Thomas was drawn to them as a moth would be to a street lamp. He stumbled up the front lane, staggering onto the stoop, and practically ran head long into the door with a horrible ‘thump’ as he shook from the cold and fear. Again and again he knocked, with no strength behind his fist so that he doubted he could be heard above the pouring rain. The wind screamed about him, making him feel weak and small. So frigidly cold was he that he shook with a mighty gale, teeth chattering and black hair plastered to his face. His pomade was completely washed away, his livery soaked to the skin. His shoes were no doubt ruined. 

A sudden series of movements behind the front door made Thomas’ heart leapt painfully in his chest. He heard a hard iron lock turn back in the wood, and suddenly the door was opened wide to reveal Mrs. Hughes who was politely puzzled as to why anyone would come calling during such ungodly weather. When she realized it was Thomas on the other side, she did a double-take in shock. 

“Thomas!” She blurted out his name in surprise. Over her shoulder Thomas could see a warm, dry house safe with a crackling fire and a cozy maroon couch. He looked on her then, and registered her for how kind she was. How loving, how trusting. Soon she would know, and soon she would hate him- “What on earth is the matter?” She asked, noticing his lip trembling. 

He opened his mouth, trying to explain himself even as the wind pitched and furled around him. But there was nothing he could say that would justify his actions, and nothing he could do that would prevent Mrs. Hughes from hating him once she knew. 

Overwhelmed by his grief, frustration and fear, Thomas broke down and wept before her. 

“Oh my lord-“ She grabbed at him, pulling him out of the wind and rain to take him into her arms. She pressed her wrinkled hands to the sides of his face, trying to get him to look at her. Thomas couldn’t do it, he was too ashamed; as he bowed his head, Mrs. Hughes allowed him to bury his nose into her shoulder and wrapped her arms around his sopping shaking shoulders. “What’s happened? Tell me no one’s hurt. Is someone hurt?” 

“No-“ Thomas stuttered out, sniveling as he dripped onto her fine wooden floors. 

“Is someone hurt? Are you hurt?” 

“No…” 

“Then what on earth is it?” She demanded. But Thomas couldn’t say, he was just too ashamed. It seemed to show in his face and his voice, for Mrs. Hughes brought her arms back around him despite how he wetted her blouse, and patted him lovingly upon the back. 

“Don’t cry love.” She whispered sweetly in his ear, her hand beating a soothing rhythm between his shoulder blades like he were a babe with colic “Don’t cry.” 

 

He was inconsolable, and making a puddle upon their foyer floor. In an attempt to right two wrongs, Mrs. Hughes finally managed to lead him upstairs if only to fetch him some of Mr. Carson’s misused laboring clothes so that he might change and be dry. They were enormous on him, and had to be rolled up several times at the waist, though his trousers still hung pitifully upon his hips. He likewise had ruined his shoes and therefore was forced to go barefoot as he returned downstairs. Mr. Carson had viewed his entry from his reading chair and was shocked from his crossword as he now observed Thomas sitting before his fireplace upon a footstool with a blanket around his shoulders. Mrs. Hughes made him a cup of tea, though he did not drink it, and bade him to talk as she retook her place across from Mr. Carson upon her own chair. Thomas had effectively stolen her ottoman. 

He sat there in silence for a good long time, unpressed allowed to calm. 

“… I feel like I’ve failed.” Thomas finally mused at last, recalling how prospective his career as a butler had been only a few days ago. He’d imagined he would be able to live out the rest of his life at Downton. Now what was left for him? “Like … Like I’m always going to fail. like that’s all I can do in life.” 

“You’ve hardly failed.” Mrs. Hughes urged, stooping over a little so that she could continue to pat him clumsily upon the back. Mr. Carson watched him carefully, eyes narrowed as he listened to every word Thomas utter as if chasing clues. 

“You’re managing very well, and Mr. Carson and I are very proud of you.” Mrs. Hughes assured him. 

“You won’t be.” Thomas whispered, for even though the house had been effectively run the past couple of weeks, it would be a meaningless victory in light of his newfound shame. No one would care that he’d been a good butler once they found out that he’d been sodomized in Tom Branson’s bed. “Not for long. Soon you won’t even want to look at me.” 

“No more of this nonsense.” Mrs. Hughes was starting to grow just a tad bit impatient, which was remarkable considering Thomas had already invaded her evening privacy, wetted her floor, stollen some of her husband’s clothes, and ignored her tea. “What have you done that’s so damning?” 

But it wasn’t that simple. It wasn’t that Thomas had done something damning. It was that he himself was damned. 

“…My father despised me, you know.” He admitted; Mrs. Hughes and Mr. Carson were silent with intrigue, “I was the oldest son, I should have inherited the clock shop. I wanted it so badly.” Thomas could remember how each of the clock’s faces had sparkled in the morning sun… as a child it had been like diving through a sea of treasure. “I loved those clocks he made. Not a prettier one in all of England. But he hated me… maybe since I was born. Said I didn’t cry like normal babes-“ 

“That is neither here nor there.” Mr. Carson shifted in his chair, “What our fathers think of us is irrelevant to what we think of ourselves.” 

Maybe there was some truth to that; for years Thomas had imagined himself about his father’s degrading comments, but now he was weak mentally and prone to imagine that he was foolish. That his father had been right all along. 

“I think I’m a damn fool.” Thomas whispered thickly, emotions welling up inside of him once again, “I think I’m a damn fool for daring to hope and dream.” 

“What on earth have you done that is so awful?” Mrs. Hughes demanded, “To make you come crawling through the rain in the dark of night.” 

But the truth was just as black and dismal as the weather outside, and Thomas bowed his head in shame as he finally admitted to the vulgarity of the situation: “I … fell in love.” 

A beat of silence was followed by the faint clink of china as Mrs. Hughes carefully put down her teacup. “Oh dear.” She whispered. Her grave tone was well deserved. 

“I fell in love,” Thomas mumbled, clutching the blanket about his shoulders for fear it would be ripped off by Mr. Carson when he cast Thomas back out into the rain, “No fast but… it happened… and with the worst person imaginable.” A member of the family. “And… and he fell in love with me, somehow-“ it was difficult to understand what Tom found so wonderful about Thomas. 

“He… He held me, and loved me, and told me I was beautiful even when he-“   
But flashes of the other night with Lady Mary bursting in on their post-orgasm glow made Thomas stop dead, lips quivering. 

There could be no more hiding. Not when everyone would soon know the truth. 

“It’s Tom.” Thomas admitted the name with as much guilt and horror as a member of the Spanish Inquisition, bowing his head so as not to see the looks of horror on Mrs. Hughes and Mr. Carson’s faces. “It’s Tom Branson-“ 

He knew they would hate him, scorn him, jeer him, and he burst into a heavy wave of beleaguered sobs as he stuttered out the rest of his admission, “Damn me if you want-“ he howled into his hands. The blanket about his shoulders fell to the floor in a heap, “But that’s the truth of it, and he got into a fight with Lady Mary so I went to his bedroom to make sure he was okay and he started takin’ off m’clothes and Lady Mary caught us in the middle of it and now she’s told his lordship and he’s on his way back from France-!” 

But Thomas was out of breath, his octave having rose higher and higher in terror until he was all but shrieking into his soaking hands. He’d not felt hysteria like this since his near death back in July, and hiccuped wildly into his hands as he sobbed with great heaving lungfuls of air. This was the end now, he was certain. Mrs. Hughes would cast him out, Mr. Carson would call the police-

“Oh Thomas…” She whispered his name in horror. 

“Damn me-“ Thomas babbled, words chopped with sorrow and hysteria, “Damn me, I deserve it— but I never meant it to happen. I never wanted it to- but I love him- and he loves me- so damn me to hell for it-! Damn me-!” 

But he could say no more. He was too overcome, too anguished, and so he collapsed from his ottoman onto the floor by the fire. He almost thought to take the poker leaning against the wall to ram himself through with it, but Mrs. Hughes had another idea. Instead of allowing him to sit alone, she swept upon him and pulled him to her knees with all her strength so that his head was pressed against her lap and his face was hidden by her thighs. 

She held him, loved him, protected him. 

“Shh-“ She tried to sooth as best she could, but Thomas was inconsolable after being hounded by Lady Mary and abandoned by Tom. Mr. Carson was yet to speak, and it was him that Thomas feared the most- even more than Lord Grantham or the police. Mr. Carson was the one who thought he ought to be horsewhipped… the one who had trusted him to be butler, and given him a second chance. 

“Hush now.” Mrs. Hughes petted his soaking hair, flopping about his ears and neck no longer stiff with pomade, “I won’t be damning you for anything.” 

There was a moment of horrible swelling silence as Mr. Carson rose from his chair, and Thomas shrunk up visibly into Mrs. Hughes’ lap, terrified of being struck or thrown. 

“Now I see.” Mr. Carson whispered gravely, “Now I see why Lady Mary said the house wasn’t being run properly. You turned it into your den of sin!” He cried out. “How could you do this, when I put so much trust in you-? How could you spread your vile sin among the family-?” 

Thomas just grew more panicked, more anguished, and wailed into Mrs. Hughes’ lap even as she sheltered him with her arms and hands. 

“Charles-!” She berated Mr. Carson in a sharp whisper. Whatever silent battle was being waged above his head, Thomas was unaware. He could not bear the thought of lifting his head; he didn’t think his shattered psyche would survive it. 

Mr. Carson said nothing for a moment, but Thomas knew he was steaming- knew that any second now he was going to pick up his telephone and call the police. 

“You… and Tom Branson?!” Carson paced back and forth, the wooden floor stomped by his feet, “Tom Branson took off your clothes on the gallery floor?! Not even doors away from where innocent normal children were sleeping?! Have you no shame?! The gall of your behavior- of his behavior!” Carson could say no more, overtaken by anger and shock. 

Thomas clutched at his head, trying to block his ears from hearing the hateful words. He even tried to stumble up and away, suddenly thinking in his irrational mind to run back to the house and actually flee with Sybbie for Liverpool- for anywhere despite the obvious consequences- but Mrs. Hughes grabbed him tight and would not let him go. She shielded his face in his hysterics, protecting him just as Baxter had done so many months ago. 

“Charles, for god’s sake.” Mrs. Hughes protested, “Don’t upset him, you know how _fragile_ he is!” 

Fragile. That’s what they all thought of him. From Lord Grantham to Mrs. Hughes. They all thought he was fragile. 

Mr. Carson grumbled underneath his breath, clearly murderous. Thomas’ cries dissolved into panicked whimpers; he clutched at Mrs. Hughes legs through her dress, praying she would not leave him. 

If she left, he would fall apart on the floor and never get back up again. This night would be his coffin.

“…Well.” Mr. Carson said after an ugly moment; his tone seemed calmed, as if he’d reasoned internally not to shout anymore lest he upset Mrs. Hughes, “You have disappointed me, Thomas. I won’t deny it. But we’ll say no more about it tonight when you’re in this state.” 

Mrs. Hughes rubbed his back up and down, Thomas did not dare speak to Carson lest he be shouted down. He felt like a sharp knife was being drug vertically across the thin skin of his throat. Like if he jerked or moved in any way at all he would be cut and killed. 

“You’ll stay here tonight.” Mrs. Hughes murmured, “You’ll sleep here, and tomorrow Mr. Carson will return to the abbey and take back over. When his lordship returns, we’ll all go up together and speak with him. After that I…” her voice trailed away dismally, “I can’t say, Thomas. I really can’t say.” 

But it was no matter. The future was blank void thing regardless of what happened to him. Eventual suicide seemed almost certain in that moment. 

Mr. Carson wouldn’t look him as Mrs. Hughes helped him to the stairs. It seemed that despite his tone dropping his anger was still broiling and he fumed by the fire in stiff silence. Mrs. Hughes walked him to the second floor of the house, which turned out to be a rather long hallway divided into four doors on either side. One was smaller, obviously a lavatory; this was hardly a mansion. But it was homey and warm- it protected him from the elements and the horrors of the waking hour. Mrs. Hughes lead him through a door on the far end of the hallway; facing the western skies it was a simple guest bedroom boasting not much more than a bed, a side table, a bureau and a closet. He all but collapsed into the coverlet, shaking wildly as Mrs. Hughes helped him to pull up the covers and lay back on his pillow. The wind and rain pounded on the dusty glass by this bed- the sky was pitch black without a tip of star or moon. Mrs. Hughes did not even make to light a candle or turn on a lamp- she merely sat on the bed at Thomas’ side and gently held his hand like he was dying of the flue and bidding his final farewells. 

“… You’re safe, Thomas.” She whispered the words, with clear promise. “You’re safe here.” 

He could not believe her, but he appreciated her kindness all the same. 

From outside the bedroom, Thomas heard the sounds of Carson shifting around the house- the dulled chatter of him on the phone. He was either calling the police or the estate to inform them why it was that the front door was wide open and the butler was long gone. For a long while, Mrs. Hughes simply sat watching him like she thought he might try to fling himself out the window if she left him alone for too long. Thomas didn’t have the energy to move upon his pillow, much lest attempt suicide, and stayed silent as she petted his hand and watched him calm. 

There came a knock on the door, and Carson poked his head in to gesture for Mrs. Hughes to join him outside. She did so, heaving herself up off the bed with a sigh. Thomas heard mumbled conversation from outside the door and turned on his side to sleep. 

What seemed like only a millisecond later, he was being gently shook awake. 

At first, he thought it was the police, and he jerked with fright upon the bed only to be petted and soothed as he rolled over onto his back and saw Mrs. Hughes sitting with him once more. She had a cup of tea in hand, which steamed softly in the dark, and offered it to him as he sat up against the ancient iron headboard. He took a hesitant sip, finding it scalding hot and swimming with honey and lemon… just how he liked it. 

It was like nectar on this awful awful night; to be given perfect tea by a loving hand. 

“Now then.” She whispered to him. “Mr. Carson’s called the house to tell them you’re with us. He’s having the chauffeur brought around to take him back up.” 

Thomas wiped bitterly at his eyes, still finding them dewy and moist. So it seemed Mr. Carson would step back into the role of butler- no doubt permanently until they found a new replacement. So much for his career- for his stability. 

“We both think it would be for the better if you stayed here until his Lordship returned from France.” Mrs. Hughes explained, “Lady Mary will appreciate having Mr. Carson back in the house and it’ll help you to gather yourself if you’re not being shouted at by Mrs. Patmore every five minutes.” 

Though he knew it was a gesture meant to make him laugh, Thomas could find none of it funny. He took another sip of tea, allowing it to warm his bones as the rain continued to hammer on the windows outside. 

“…Now, will you tell me how this happened?” Mrs. Hughes asked; she added for emphasis, “How you and Mr. Branson… came to… know one another?” 

‘Know one another’… what a funny phrase for buggery. 

“I don’t think I can say Mrs. Hughes.” Thomas admitted. She flattened his blankets across his knees, smoothing them so that they did not wrinkle, “I don’t want to disgust you.” 

She smiled, gently shaking her head in negation. “…Thomas.” she said in soft reproach. 

He wondered in that moment if she, like Daisy, knew how incredibly special she was. If she realized that no one on Earth would likely care about why it was that he and Tom were in love- that they would only see the sin of the act. The damnation that followed in the afterlife. 

“Well, we just…” We just what. Got obsessed with an ouija board? 

“We started getting to know one another, and… and he pushed me to be a better person-“ essentially beat him over the head with the concept, “And I- I started to realize that he was incredibly gifted. A gentleman. Wonderful. I became the nanny and I guess he realized that I wasn’t the devil-“ 

“He never thought you were the devil.” Mrs. Hughes corrected him with a tut. 

“Well, maybe not-“ It was difficult to say, “but it helped for him to see me with the children, particularly Miss Sybbie when she got ill. By Christmas time we were right chummy but… it was odd.” 

Even now Thomas could remember how Tom had lovingly touched the corner of his mouth where Anna had struck him in her labor-pains. 

“It was like… a hill.” It was the best phrase he knew, “Once we started rolling we couldn’t stop. And then we started using the ouija together-“ 

“Oh Thomas.” Mrs. Hughes rolled her eyes to the ceiling to ask God for strength. “I thought I told you to let that board alone!” 

“But he wanted to use it!” Thomas protested, “So we started sessions together, and it was great fun- he makes me laugh more than anyone on Earth. I never knew I could laugh so much.” 

“Well I’m glad for that.” She gave him a wistful smile, “You seldom crack so much as a smile.” 

“Then Lady Sybil contacted him through the ouija board and started giving us codes-“ 

“Thomas-“ It seemed Mrs. Hughes had reached the end of her patience where the ouija board was concerned, “Don’t say such blasphemy-“ 

“But it’s true!” Thomas protested, for though it was hairy it was the absolute God’s honest truth. He set his tea upon the beside table to speak without distraction, to beg with his eyes; Mrs. Hughes did not seem entirely swayed, eyes narrowed as he spoke, “Please believe me. Lady Sybil was using codes to give us messages. Numerology codes. And Tom started studying all sorts to figure it out. It just brought us closer- unraveling the mystery. But then Larry Gray came to dinner and insulted all of us… and Tom…” Thomas paused. 

That first kiss had shocked the hell out of him. He felt ashamed now, to know how he’d slapped Tom. 

“Tom wanted me to come to his room.” Thomas admitted sadly, “So I did, and… he kissed me.” Thomas bowed his head, cheeks flushed, “So fiercely. So proudly.” 

 

“I see.” Mrs. Hughes’ tone had changed. She sat back a bit, eyes still narrowed as she gave him the raw sort of look one would expect from an irritated mother, “So _he_ started this little liaison?” 

“S’not a liaison.” Thomas protested, knowing how bad it must look for Tom’s sake in that moment. Even Mrs. Hughes had her doubts, “I love him, Mrs. Hughes. Please believe me… He courted me, he really did. He even punished himself for kissing me without warning by working all day outside in the snow.” 

“Ever the martyr.” Mrs. Hughes rolled her eyes at the showmanship. 

“He even took me out!” Thomas said, for no man had ever done such a thing. Not even Phillip, a Duke with lined pockets. “He took me to this pub in York, and we had such fun Mrs. Hughes. It was incredible- I’ve never been so happy.” 

She gave him a rather sympathetic look. 

“But then…” And here was when it got ugly, “Then Lady Mary started catching on, and wouldn’t let it be. Then the other night, Tom and her had an argument and I went upstairs to check on him after dinner… and…” 

And then the ‘knowing’, as Mrs. Hughes would probably say. He flushed, looking down at his knees. Mrs. Hughes reached out to touch his chin, forcing him to look up and catch her eye. 

“And then you made a mistake.” She said reproachfully, giving him no room to squirm upon her guest bed. 

“Well- it’s just-“ It’s just what? 

“No man’s ever been so loving and tender to me, so when it happened I just… let it.” Thomas shrugged. Mrs. Hughes gave him a rather surly look. 

Thomas flushed, but continued on with his story, “But then, Lady Mary walked in and saw us and was sickened.” 

Mrs. Hughes grimaced, “I shudder to think what she saw.” 

What _didn’t_ she see? That was the real question. Christ, Thomas was pretty certain she’d seen Tom’s cock up his arse. If that didn’t put her off for life he didn’t know what would. 

“She was so angry, she shouted at Tom and then wanted Mr. Carson to come back to the house-“ 

“So the other day when you told me something had happened, that’s what you were alluding to?” Mrs. Hughes asked, slightly affronted, “Being caught out with Mr. Branson?” 

Thomas nodded, embarrassed. Mrs. Hughes rolled her eyes. 

“To think I’d just imagined you were going at the wine again.” She muttered, more to herself than anyone else. 

“I wouldn’t turn down a drink.” Thomas admitted. Mrs. Hughes snorted. “But then Ms. Baxter got her promotion, so I had to call her… and…” He paused, still unsure why it was that Baxter’s voice had so moved him. “I guess because we’re so close that when I heard her voice I just… I just broke down and started wailin’. She must have panicked and assumed the worst because I wouldn’t tell her what happened— she probably told Lord Grantham. Then he called back and asked to speak to Lady Mary… Then she told him to come back home as soon as possible because I had ‘things to explain’.” Thomas sniffed, feeling his eyes begin to burn again. 

The idea of having to explain his piece to Lord Grantham put his stomach in knots. 

“I’m finished, Mrs. Hughes.” Thomas whispered, burying his face in his hands. “All I did was love someone and I’m finished.” 

Misery swallowed him once again, and now with a witness to his shame Thomas found he could no longer face the world. He slipped down upon his pillows, turning his head to the side so that Mrs. Hughes could not see his tears. For a moment Mrs. Hughes said nothing, merely keeping him company as she patted his side through his blankets and stroked the back of his head. 

“You are not finished.” She whispered softly, “Not yet at least. Lord Grantham is kind… he will not call the police. And if it’s as you say, Tom will defend you.” 

Of course Tom would defend him. But even Tom couldn’t beat the world. Sooner or later they would be swallowed up, together or separate it did not matter. 

“Go to sleep, Thomas.” Mrs. Hughes ordered, shifting his blankets a little better around his shoulders. 

But as she turned off the light and left the room, Thomas did not go to sleep. Instead he lay wide awake upon a bed that was not his own and sniffed into his pillow. It dampened with his tears, till both the bedroom window and his face were soaked to the bone. 

In a house across the way, a retired butler locked up doors that had been left open and handed off keys to a very confused cook. No explanations were given and no lies were told. Why one butler had come only to be replaced by another, even the oldest staff member did not know. But one assistant cook, clutching a bag of peanuts and a sopping umbrella, had light flashing in her eyes. Fear overtook her heart as she saw Carson returned, knowing what surely must have happened. What would come with the breaking of the dawn and the passing of the day. 

When he returned, driving by an exhausted and bitter chauffeur who couldn’t make heads or tails of the situation, Thomas was till awake to hear the front door open and close. 

Thomas listened to the heavy feet coming up the stairs. To the sounds drawing closer. Thomas prayed Mr. Carson was just going to use the lavatory and would leave him alone- but even as he pinched his eyes closed Mr. Carson opened his guest room door and entered in the dark. 

Thomas had once had an awful waking dream just like this- save last time he’d been in a bathtub and unable to scream. Now, Thomas had full control of his muscles and voice; even so he remained just as stiff and silent as before. Like a frightened rabbit in a brush, he kept from moving lest he give his scent away. 

His bed dipped with an enormous groan. Thomas shuddered, realizing Mr. Carson had sat down in Mrs. Hughes’ old spot. There was no need for Mr. Carson to shake him awake- with every sniff that Thomas gave to keep tears off his pillow, he betrayed his waking state. 

“Have you come back to your senses?” Mr. Carson asked softly. Thomas could not tell whether there was an insult there or not. He sniffed loudly, refusing to open his eyes. 

“Did I ever have them?” Thomas whispered. Mr. Carson shifted a bit upon the bed, heaving a bitter sigh. 

“I’ve locked up the house.” Mr. Carson said, “When you fled your post you left the door open- you do realize that?” 

Thomas said nothing, keeping as still as possible. 

“Before I go to bed, I wanted to speak with you.” Mr. Carson’s tone changed- as if on his trek to and from the abbey he’d had time to think over what he wanted to say. Thomas would have been a fool to think he’d not been expecting this- ugly words and anger. 

He knew Carson was furious at him. 

“I require you to look at me.” Carson ordered. Years of following every command given by Carson forced Thomas to roll onto his back, wet eyes rolling open so that tears leaked from the corners of his eyes. He found Carson hunched over in the dark, illuminated by nothing but there faintest of light that came from somewhere down the hallway- perhaps a bedroom light on in Carson’s private chambers. When Thomas had last seen Carson in the dark, it had been a dream and Carson had not had eyes. He’d been murderous and hateful… but now Carson just looked grumpy and slightly disappointed. 

In other words, completely normal. 

“I have no children of my own, as you know, nor am I likely to have any unless Mrs. Hughes and I adopt… which is unlikely.” Mr. Carson added bitterly. Thomas blinked, unsure of what he was trying to say. 

“What I am saying to you, Thomas, is that you are almost like a son at times to me.” Carson spoke softly, almost blending in with the night. It was like Thomas was talking to a completely different man than the one who bossed him around in the daytime. “Particularly when you do wrong and I know you can do better. I suppose I take it to heart. I say things I don’t necessarily believe. I do things I don’t necessarily enjoy. ” 

Carson paused, thinking his words over. Thomas felt the sting of guilt as he said, “I put a great deal of faith in you, and I don’t do that blindly. I know I judged you wrongly before… I know we had a rough start. But I merely want you to do the right thing, and I know you’re capable of it.” 

But Thomas had no moral compass. “What’s the right thing?” He whispered, genuinely at a loss. If anyone would know it would be Charles Carson. 

“You must tell Lord Grantham the truth when he returns from France, and face the consequences humbly.” 

He supposed he could have figured that out on his own, and maybe when it was Carson ordering him to do so Thomas didn’t feel so bad about it. Maybe, in a way, it soothed him to know that this was all part of the plan. Just another order in a long line of orders to follow. 

“Yes, Mr. Carson.” Thomas whispered, the age old response. 

Mr. Carson was pleased.   
He reached out, patting Thomas upon the shoulder. His hand was heavy and warm, somehow oddly like Tom’s in its weight. 

“Go to sleep, Thomas.” Mr. Carson said. “We’ll deal with the rest tomorrow.” 

And Thomas supposed, as Mr. Carson left the room, that was all the best that could be hoped for. 

He turned his head upon the pillow, watching shadows dance along the hallway wall as Mr. Carson opened his own bedroom door and greeted Mr. Hughes. The hulking shadow of Mr. Carson’s form slipped slowly out of sight only to vanish entirely when Mr. Carson closed the bedroom door and plunge the house back into darkness. 

Thomas closed his eyes, face still slightly wet but eyes no longer crying. He listened to the sound of Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes talking in their bedroom down the hall though he could only make out snippets through his misery and the wooden walls- 

_“- as it should be. We’ll handle-“_

_“Poor thing. Like a lamb shakin’-”_

_“Keep him—— won’t pretend any of— what comes next”_

_“——Keep him here-- safe from himself—“_

_“— agree.”_

The fact that anyone would want to keep him at all after what he’d done was enough to finally lull Thomas to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading. Remember to review if you enjoyed it, or didn't... if you have any questions or concerns. I read every review I get, so I will be happy to answer anything you ask.


	16. Meanwhile, Rick James...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lord and Lady Grantham return home from France.   
> _C'est la vie._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I know there's been some heavy speculation on how this chapter would unfold. I've been working the entire weekend, and spending my hours off re-watching DA to figure out how Lord Grantham dealt with difficult things in the past. The Earl cinnamon roll was more like a sinnamon roll at times, I won't lie. 
> 
> I hope that you enjoy this chapter. As always, I read every comment that's put forth, so if you have any questions or concerns please do not hesitate to let me know. This was an incredibly difficult chapter to write; I doubt everyone will be happy with it.

So all things considered, going to London with Henry had not exactly been a half bad idea: 

After having an intervention of crisis proportions as Henry came to the concept of Tom not exactly being the straightest arrow in the box, the pair of them had headed out on the town to do a bit of ‘shopping’. 

In other words, to howl and gawp at newly made cars while dealers bade them to either pick a vehicle or leave the lot. 

Sixteen car dealerships later and two showings for new models, Tom and Henry had found three beautiful new models to buy: A sterling blue Pierce-Arrow, a Ford Swarovski, and a Model T that Henry wanted desperately to zoom around the Greenstright Racetrack if only to put her through her paces. Tom might or might not have envisioned Thomas in incredibly tight sheer pink women’s lingerie bottoms, straddling the hood of the Pierce-Arrow having at it with a penny lick on a hot summer day. 

He’d say things like, _“Ooh this big metal hood is so hot”_ and _“I hope I don’t get sun burn on my pert bum.”_

For some reason he’d been wearing Mary’s sun glasses too, but Tom wasn’t about to ask questions. Likewise Tom had a feeling Thomas couldn’t be paid enough money to insist he had a ‘pert’ bum, even though he bloody well did. 

“So!” Henry declared over coffee and biscuits, ownership titles in hand and a smug grin on his face. They were eating brunch upon the Knightsbridge Veranda, a sort of in-bred cafe that had opened up due to high class patronage of the hotel. It was still bitterly cold outside, giving the pair of them the ability to have every terrace seat to themselves while sensible diners took their overpriced biscotti inside. “We’ll take the Pierce-Arrow, Ford Swarovski, and Model T to York-“ 

“Let’s have the Pierce-Arrow shipped later,” Tom said, “She’s so valuable I don’t want her getting banged up-“ 

_I am in no way building plans to coerce Thomas to climb up on the hood in lingerie_ , Tom told himself confidently. Honestly what nonsense- like Thomas could even get a pair of lady’s drawers over his round… soft- 

“We’ve already got a prospective buyer though.” Henry added, taking a small bite out of buttered toast. It was difficult to eat greasy food and hold paperwork at the same time, “Maybe we should simply leave her here and have our viewers come up for a personal inspection. It’ll be expensive to move her across country if the Duke of Pellsworth backs out.” 

The name didn’t ring a bell: “D’you think he would?” 

“I don’t know.” Henry sighed, with that same voice of reservation he so often used for people who didn’t automatically floor their gas pedal. “He’s a chicken- if you own a fast car you need to drive her to her paces. He just likes looking flashy.” 

The worst of sins.

“Not everyone can be as brave as you-“ Tom reminded him, for Henry was fearless behind the wheel and only a fool could deny it. 

“Or you, my little Oscar Wilde.” Henry joked. Tom did not take it as a compliment. He wondered if this was how Thomas felt, to be reminded of Oscar Wilde all the time. There had been other gay men in the history of England. That was to say- Tom didn’t know of any of them but surely there had to have been… he just needed to do the research. 

Tom pursed his lips, only pausing to take a sip of cooling coffee. “There are more… different men… than him.” Tom muttered, “We’re not all flowery sorts.” 

“Obviously.” Henry was almost flabbergasted, back tracking with clear panic as he tried to undo his conversation slip. “Barrow’s certainly not an artist.” 

Tom pursed his lips again, feeling himself grow irritated. He didn’t want to have an aggressive relationship with Henry. He wanted them to get on, to enjoy each other as they always did. 

“I heard he beat Harris at the Näive Bar.” Henry offered, sensing Tom’s depleting mood. Tom chuckled at the memory, remembering how elated he’d felt as Thomas had slammed Harris’ massive fist to that upended beer table. 

“Oh yeah, we- ” Tom began, but the rest of his sentence trailed away as a footman for the hotel came walking out of the warm dining hall to bear Henry a message. He was a polished, clipped lad with smoothed hair and finely pressed black trousers. There was something oddly haunted about his eyes though that Tom was able to notice- the constant worry of being in the serving class and without money. 

“Telephone for your, Mr. Talbot.” The footman said, “A Lady Mary Talbot, she says it’s most urgent.“

Ugly tension began to spool in the pit of Tom’s stomach as he watched Henry rise from his chair. Despite not being bidden, Tom went with him, sensing that whatever was about to happen would include Thomas to some extent. Entering back into the warm and cozy dining hall, the pair of them walked down a side hall that would surely (at some point) lead to a back room and kitchen. However, before any of that devolved there was a small alcove with a candlestick telephone upon a fine mahogany stand. It lay off its hook, waiting for Henry, and Henry picked it up at once to grab for both ends of the phone. 

By his shoulder, Tom waited warily. 

“Mary!” Henry smiled, nodding to Tom a bit as if to say _‘Don’t worry, all’s well’_. “How are you darling?” 

Henry listened intently, a devoted husband. Yet as the conversation on Mary’s end grew longer, Henry’s smile began to drop. 

Tom’s stomach went into knots. 

“What?” Henry didn’t sound alarmed, just confused. He frowned, brow furrowed, “Why? Shouldn’t he be due back around the middle of-….” but Henry just trailed away, growing more and more nervous. He looked over his shoulder at Tom, who was still quite wary. Henry shot him a tiny smile- though it was incredibly insincere and obviously more of a front than an emotion. “Mmm. I see.” 

“What is it?” Tom asked. 

“Just- just a moment dear-“ Henry coughed, pulling the phone away from his ear so that he could speak instead to Tom. 

“… Well you see-“ Henry paused, unsure of how to best word the news, “Mary’s called Robert home from France. She told him Barrow had a ‘sin’ to confess to him- and that it had to do with the family.” 

Tom listened but didn’t seem to hear. He needed Henry to almost repeat himself. Mary had done _… what?_

Surely not. That was… that was over the top- even for Mary — surely Henry only meant to say that Robert was coming home early and had called and… Mary had… 

“Barrow ran away to the Carson’s a few days ago.” Henry carried on, “He’s with them now. Mary thinks he might have overheard her phone conversation- that he might have been listening at the door-“ 

Suddenly Tom was painted a horrific mental picture of Thomas petrified and in the dark, running through the woods and outcrops of Grantham- friendless and alone as he wept into his hands. The fact that it was Mary who had put him into such a position- Mary who’d been snarky but never cruel (save for that one time). Mary who was George’s mother for Christ sake- George who Thomas adored and fawned over as if he were his own! 

Tom was not a well educated man like Henry. He’d never taken courses in etiquette and wearing white tie at diner was akin to a straight jacket at times. The polite thing to do, in such situations as this, would be to calmly inform Henry of his immediate departure and to catch the next train home to Yorkshire. 

Instead, Tom grabbed the candlestick clean out of Henry’s hand to bark into the phone: “I’ll be home by five!” He snarled, knowing full well Mary would hear him on the other end, “And mark me when I get there you’ll know!” 

He thrust the telephone back to Henry, not caring for the scene he’d no doubt made in that little hallway by the dining room. He stormed through the eating hall, wishing he could knock people out of his way if only to get to the main staircase faster and back up to his rooms. All he could think of was Thomas in danger, Thomas far away, clearly frightened out of his mind and waiting for doom at the Carson’s quaint little cottage. 

“Tom! Tom-!” Henry was coming after him, all but running despite his finely pressed suit and posh surroundings. He caught Tom upon the stairs, and grabbed at his elbow to slow his pace. “What are you doing?” 

“I’m going to get Thomas!” Tom cried out, jerking his elbow clear from Henry’s grip, “Before Mary _feckin’_ kills him!” 

The sound of someone saying ‘feckin’ caused several old English women to gasp into their silk dining napkins. 

~*~

The day after running away to the Carson’s, Thomas had woken up violently ill. 

It was a good thing that Lady Mary was alone in the house, because it allowed Mr. Carson to lord over the staff without needing a house keeper. Mrs. Hughes stayed home, having been in the middle of a backyard renovation that Thomas had known nothing about, and essentially kept him from dying as he vomited his weight in acid stomach acid and sweated out an atrocious fever. 

Really it wasn’t that big a gamble as to why he was sick. He’d run a half hour marathon through freezing rain and slush, without a coat, scarf, or mitts. He was lucky he didn’t have pneumonia, though it was slightly ironic that he now actually had the flue. 

Mrs. Hughes was unbelievably patient with her impromptu house guest, bathing his burning forehead in a cool cloth and helping him to sip a simple chicken broth soup when he was finally up to it. Every time Thomas sat up, his head pounded relentlessly, forcing him to sleep most of the day away while he listened to birds chittering and the sounds of Mrs. Hughes outside. She was doing yard work most of the time, getting on merrily with neighbors and taking tea with old ladies that wanted to see how she was getting on. Every time she had a chance, she popped in upstairs and checked in on him. 

“Tom…” Thomas had mumbled blearily, half asleep and half awake with fever muddling his brain. Mrs. Hughes had gently changed the clothe upon his head to keep it fresh and cool. 

“There there.” She’d murmured, turning to the age old English phrase of courage: “Steady on.” 

Tuesday morning dawned bright and clear, giving Thomas a sharp turn around from how awful he’d felt over the weekend. His head was still a little bit groggy.. but he’d improve. He just needed a good meal and maybe some fresh air. He woke with eyes still closed, feeling a firm hand cooling his brow; it seemed to be what had woken him for a cloth was moving back and forth, pulling off day old sweat. Thomas knew he must smell rank. 

He opened his aching eyes and found Mrs. Hughes above him, smiling kindly. She wore an outfit that was foreign to Thomas, no more forced to be clad in black. Instead she wore a modest peach blouse with his angel pin clasped to her throat, a navy skirt down to her ankles and dark brown heeled shoes that gave her feet an unnatural arch. Her hairstyle didn’t seem to have changed much: a bun hidden in rolls of hair pinned at the back of her neck. 

“Good morning.” She addressed him happily, as if he hadn’t been passed out in delirium on her guest bed for the past three days. “Are you feeling any better? Up for a spot of tea?” 

Tea sounded heavenly right at that moment, and Thomas nodded blearily as he tried inch by inch to sit up against his pillows and head board. He saw then that, at some point, Mrs. Hughes seemed to have delegated herself again with the task of re-dressing him for bed. This meant she’d now seen him starkers twice; Thomas wasn’t sure how he felt about that. Instead of being in Mr. Carson’s old hand-me-downs, he was in a pair of pajama trousers and an undershirt which was nearly sweated through from his sickness. Thomas wished he could pull it off. It smelt _vile_. 

Mrs. Hughes handed him a cup of tea, garnished in honey and lemon just as he liked it. As Thomas took a sip, it scalded his throat and chased away his morning breath. 

God bless…. god bless. 

“Thank you.” He whispered, taking another sip of tea.   
His head wasn’t pounding anymore. 

Mrs. Hughes repositioned herself in her chair, taking up a cup of tea all her own to join Thomas in their pre-breakfast treat. Thomas wondered what time it was, and realized that his pocket watch and been in his soaking livery. God, he might have damaged it in the rain. 

“Mr. Carson went up to the abbey first thing Saturday morning. He’s taken over as butler for the weekend and he couldn’t be happier about it. Lord Grantham will be arriving at five thirty this afternoon, and when he does you and I will walk up together to speak to him.” 

“What day is it?” Thomas asked, nervous. 

“Tuesday.” Mrs. Hughes explained, pausing to check a lady’s pocket watch at her hip… A London Grant, probably 1805 in date. Cylinder movement, gold case… possibly an heirloom, though Thomas couldn’t see how given that Mrs. Hughes was Scottish. “At 8:35 in the morning if you’d like to know.” 

“… Would you mind terribly if I took off this shirt?” Thomas asked, quite nervous in his forwardness. Mrs. Hughes blinked in surprise. “It’s just that I smell horrid and I feel like I’m drowning in a pool of sweat.” 

She waved a hand, unfazed. “We’ll keep it between the pair of us, but don’t expect me to gloat to Mr. Carson that I’ve seen your naked chest.” 

“I think you’ve seen more than that, if we’re being honest.” Thomas muttered, pausing to pull off his shirt. So wet was it that it could have been comparable to a man who’d gone swimming, and Thomas grimaced as he hastily dropped the shirt to the floor. Mrs. Hughes bent over to pick it up but Thomas stopped her. 

“Don’t bother.” He muttered, desperate to keep her from touching the offending cloth, “I’ll deal with it when I get out of bed. Don’t touch it. It’s vile.” 

She smiled, amused, and sat back on her chair again to continue with her tea. Slightly chilly without his shirt, Thomas shivered as he took another sip of scalding tea.   
Mercifully he didn’t feel too exposed in front of Mrs. Hughes. It felt like being shirtless in front of his mother instead of a retired housekeeper. Over the past weekend, Mrs. Hughes had acted more like a mother to him than his own mother had in life, tending to him in sickness and allowing him to recover without nagging at him. He was incredibly grateful for her kindness, and found himself putting her on a minuscule list of people who’d gone out of their way for no reason to be kind to him. Lady Sybil and Baxter were likewise on that list. 

“Mr. Carson said Mr. Branson hasn’t been home all weekend.” Mrs. Hughes said. 

“Why-?” But Thomas’ question of why Mr. Carson even cared was quickly shot down as Mrs. Hughes rolled her eyes and set down her nearly finished cup of tea. 

“Really, Thomas, did you expect him to let it lay?” Mrs. Hughes asked, slightly humored, “He went up to the abbey first thing Saturday morning to give him a hot telling off. He’s been deprived of a great scolding, I can tell you.” 

“He’s in London with Mr. Talbot.” Thomas admitted, pursing his lips, “They’re looking at racing cars. He didn’t want to go but Lady Mary made him… Cause she wanted me alone to drag me through the mud.” He added bitterly, recalling how hellish Friday had been. 

“She wanted him gone so that you two couldn’t lark about on the gallery floor.” Mrs. Hughes wasn’t going to play favorites, even in this dire moment. She gave him a small but kind smile, “Nothing more. It was not meant as an attack against you, Thomas. Only to uphold order.” 

Yeah, well, Mrs. Hughes hadn’t been around to see the way Lady Mary had drug him through the dirt, had she? She was just assuming the best of human nature as she always did. 

“I don’t want a damn thing t’do with order.” Thomas whispered, looking down glum at his tea. It was starting to go cold, “I just want t’be with him. Is that so vulgar?” 

Mrs. Hughes reached out, and with a kind hand gently pushed his chin up so that they could stare eye to eye. She had the uncanny ability of giving him no where to hide but making it to where he didn’t need to hide in the first place. An odd coupling of talents if ever there was one. 

“Oh Thomas.” She murmured, sympathetic, “It might be unnatural, but we’ll say no more of it. Go on and get dressed, I’ll make us some breakfast. I need your help in the garden.” She rose up, collecting both their teacups to take back downstairs. “You can borrow some of Mr. Carson’s work clothes again.” 

Thomas supposed he had very little choice in the matter. Not that he minded helping Mrs. Hughes. 

As Thomas rose he quickly washed with a wet cloth in the Carson’s cramped but well equipped lavatory. He resolved to bath properly before they went up to the abbey together, stomach churning in dread as he imagined the horrific conversation that would unfold before the sun was set. 

Downstairs, Mrs. Hughes was making a modest breakfast for the pair of them. She could hardly boast the same spread as Mrs. Patmore but Thomas didn’t care. So famished was he after three days of barely being able to eat for anxiety and sickness that as he came downstairs and spotted eggs and bacon upon a plate he all but launched himself at it. Mrs. Hughes couldn’t put the food down quick enough before he was wolfing it up, causing her to chuckle as she joined him at the table. 

“Well,” she praised as she took away two clean plates, “I’m thankful that someone likes my cooking.” 

“It’s delicious.” Thomas assured her, gulping down some more tea. Mr. Carson’s clothes practically swallowed him. He had to wear a belt to its tightest notch just to keep his pants around his waist and his shirt was rolled up to the elbow leaving a billow space between cloth and skin. Mrs. Hughes looked on him fondly as she deposited the plates in the kitchen sink to wash them with a damp sponge. The Carson’s kitchen was a shotgun shape, so that one entered through the sitting area and exited out onto the back garden stoop beyond a heavily bolted door covered at the window by lace curtains (an odd juxtaposition). 

“Mr. Carson says I should use more salt.” Mrs. Hughes snorted as she dried their cleaned plates with a damp cloth. 

“….Can’t he add more salt to his own plate?” Thomas asked, slightly confused as to what was stopping the man from reaching across the table and taking up the shaker. 

Mrs. Hughes gave him a dry look, “You’d think that.” She sneered.   
So clearly they’d been arguing on this for a while. 

“Now.” She wiped her hands off, turning to the back door to unlock its many bolts and opened it wide, “Out into the garden with you. I need your help pulling weeds.” 

As it turned out she needed his help doing many things. 

Thomas was more than happy to frolic about in the mud, given the fact that he was practically penned up in the abbey all day long on a normal week. He loved the sun, but given that he lived in England he had better chances at jockeying a round at the Ascot Racecourse. To be fair the sun wasn’t beaming down even today, but at least he was out in the fresh air as he de-weeded Mrs. Hughes garden with swift speed. He then helped her spread enormous canvas sacks bursting at the seams with mulch, brought over by a neighbor with a cart and horse. Mrs. Hughes and the farmer made small talk, swapping gossip about the nasty Saturday storm while Thomas unloaded sack after sack from the cart. Mrs. Hughes could hardly lift the sacks but he did it with little effort, depositing twenty sacks around the front and back of the house as Mrs. Hughes bade the farmer farewell and smacked the rump of his aged horse. 

She used a hand plow to cut into the sacks, and Thomas tore at them with brute strengths to render them open. He deposited the mulch and she spread it to her liking, so that sack after sack they made a habit of cutting, tearing, pouring, and sifting. When they were done, the yard looked transformed and ready for life with dark brown mulch cutting a clear path against tawny brittle grass yearning for spring sun. Mrs. Hughes pointed spot and spot out in her up and coming cotton garden, using a notepad and pencil to write down all that she’d need. Mainly there would be vegetables for household consumption… potatoes, carrots, cabbages, beans, onions, parsnips, and even peas. Mrs. Hughes likewise wanted to plant climbing roses but before she could do that the outer cottage walls needed to be cleared of weeds that had snaked up the stones on vines. Thomas took that as an impromptu order to begin de-weeding, and before Mrs. Hughes could finish her sentence he was back to work yanking vine after vine down. She praised his initiative, ordering him from several paces back as she watched him go higher and higher up the house. At one point he was on her second story window sill ledge, grabbing at the roof with one hand to pull at a vine with the other. 

“Very good- now just there-!” Mrs. Hughes said. “Careful now, for heaven’s sake-!” 

But even as she spoke, the shingle Thomas was holding onto broke clean way from the roof, aged and unable to hold up his weight. He collapsed in a heap onto the soft bed of dark brown mulch beneath the window, all the breath knocked out of him as Mrs. Hughes shrieked in surprise. She came to his side at once, stooping over him as he blinked up at her dazed. 

“Thomas, are you alright?” She begged, fretful as she stooped down to try and help him up. 

Thomas started snickering, looking up at the sky overhead. It was a cotton white with overcast clouds without the threat of rain. 

He couldn’t stop laughing, rolling over onto this side as he sat back up. Mrs. Hughes dusted mulch out of his hair and from his shoulders, while Thomas just kept snickering. 

“I think that’s a sign for us to stop.” Mrs. Hughes chortled, “Thank goodness we laid down that mulch. Goodness look at you, you’re as dirty as a carrot.” 

 

As a sort of treat, the pair of them had lemonade on the back step of the kitchen door, looking out on their hard work. Mrs. Hughes had apparently gone to the village a few days before, and while out fetching household goods had likewise stopped at the bakery to get some fresh bed. There, they’d been boasting bottled lemonade. She’d bought four, and now the pair of them were splitting the first bottle. It was sharp on the tongue but undeniably refreshing and sweet as Thomas wiped the dirt from his skin and Mrs. Hughes pondered her garden-to-be on her notepad. 

“I like being out in the sun.” Thomas said, unexpectedly. “I wish I could do it more often. Even as a child I was always indoors.” 

“But surely your father let you play too.” Mrs. Hughes offered. 

“…No.” The fact of the matter was that Thomas’ father hadn’t let him do much of anything besides help with the shop and take care of his siblings. Even as a child, he’d seemed to realize Thomas was different, and hadn’t let him associate with the village at large. One time, Margret had told Thomas that a neighbor had mistakenly insisted there were six Barrow children, completely unaware that there was in fact an older son than Daniel hiding away in the house. She’d corrected the neighbor, only to be privately scolded by their mother who had urged her not to speak of Thomas in public. Apparently he was their ‘special problem’. 

Whatever that meant. 

“My father didn’t want me around other children.” Thomas admitted, slightly ashamed to speak of his family in that moment. Maybe it was because he was sitting on the stoop of a perfectly normal house- a place where love could grow without being constricted. It forced him to realize that his childhood home had been anything but normal. That he’d grown up essentially in a tomb. “He thought I was diseased. That I’d make them different. He made me work in his shop, and stay upstairs when company came over.” 

Mrs. Hughes frowned, listening intently. 

“S’why I like cricket so much. It was the only thing I got to do that was my own.” Thomas said, for he could remember it being the only thing that, in his youth, he’d been allowed to do. His father might have disliked Thomas, but he’d been a great fan of cricket. The entire family had been allowed to go to village matches, and Thomas had all but burst from his mother’s side to run out among the other children and try his hand at the bat. 

When he’d excelled, his father had cheered from the sidelines. Thomas had pretended his father was cheering for him, not the sport itself. 

“I used to long to have a sketchpad.” He said, somehow suddenly spilling his soul for Mrs. Hughes, “I wanted to go out into me mum’s garden and draw what I saw. The vegetables, the flowers… the house we lived in. Can you imagine me, painting flowers?” Thomas snorted at the idea. As if the rest of the abbey didn’t think he was fruity enough, “But I wanted to.” 

“Did you ever tell your father?” Mrs. Hughes asked, taking a small sip of lemonade. Thomas took another sip as well, nodding as he looked out onto Mrs. Hughes’ garden. 

“I did.” Thomas admitted. 

“What did he say?” 

“He didn’t say anything.” Thomas admitted, “He slapped me and made me cry.” He shrugged when Mrs. Hughes gave him a startled look. “I never got to paint flowers, c’ept in my mind. But I did you know-“ He could remember having a vivid imagination as a child. Then again, had that ever really stopped as an adult? “I painted beautiful flowers. I reckon none of mine would look as beautiful as yours.” Thomas added, gesturing out onto the garden. 

He wanted to get off this subject. Why had he ever gotten onto it in the first place? 

“You’ve a talented imagination, Thomas.” Mrs. Hughes praised, “You should harness it.” 

“I thought you didn’t like it when I made mischief.” Thomas thought back to his first few years in the abbey, how often Mrs. Hughes had told him to ‘simmer down’ or ‘keep his hands to himself’. She’d spent more time yelling at him than directing her maids during the day. Nine times out of ten if the name _“Thomas!”_ could be heard in the hall in had been Mrs. Hughes trying to rope him back into line. 

_“Thomas! Stop monkeying about in the kitchen!”_   
_“Thomas, what did I say about playing the piano-!“_   
_“Thomas, that is not how we clean the pantry! You do not throw the beans you pick them up!”_   
_“Thomas, if you do not quit god so help me I’ll call a priest!”_

“I don’t like it when you bully others and behave badly.” She warned him, causing Thomas’ stomach to squirm with guilt. “Particularly when I know that you can do better. But I’m of the firm opinion that some of us are simply born busy, and you are one of that group.” 

“That’s a polite way of saying I’m a nosy little child that needs to get their hand slapped.” 

“Maybe.” Mrs. Hughes said, but her voice was full of kindness as she smiled at him, “but you’re our nosy child that needs to get their hand slapped, and don’t you ever forget it.” 

“If you insist.” He shrugged. He wasn’t sure he’d ever fully believe it. 

They finished their lemonade and Mrs. Hughes checked her pocket watch to see that it was three in the afternoon. 

“I’d better get cleaned up.” Thomas mumbled, nausea eating at his stomach as he realized that Lord Grantham would soon be home. “I have to look smart to go back for my hanging.” 

“We’ll both be going back, so we both better get cleaned up.” She warned him, clambering up off the stoop. Thomas helped her up, toeing off Mr. Carson’s borrowed boots so that the dirt could stay outside and not sully the kitchen floor. “And they won’t hang you Thomas. Not yet in any event.” 

“Well clear your schedule anyways.” Thomas mumbled, his nausea just growing and growing. 

 

Mrs. Hughes and Mr. Carson did not have a washer in their home, so Thomas could not put his dirty clothes anywhere besides his guest closet. He washed up in the lavatory, taking an actual bath as Mrs. Hughes set Mr. Carson’s hand-me-downs to soak before the dirt could set in. Thomas scrubbed at his skin, wishing he could wash away more than just the dirt as he stared at his ruined wrists bone white with bulging scars. He dressed back in Mr. Carson’s trousers, feeling a right fool as he notched the belt back up to its tightest hole and combed his hair. He didn’t even have a jacket to wear, and wondered where on earth his livery was. He had to get his pocket watch back, if nothing else. 

Mrs. Hughes didn’t need to change her clothes, given that Thomas had essentially been her pack mule in the garden. She did, however, change her shoes, and the pair of them headed other together around 4:30 to walk together back up to the abbey. 

Maybe it was just Thomas’ impending sense of doom, but the sky seemed to be getting darker. 

“Mrs. Hughes.” Thomas said as they walked side by side in the dirt road, “Where is my livery? My pocket watch was in my vest, and I need it back.” 

“I should imagine you do!” Mrs. Hughes said with a small smile. “Your pocket watch is at the cottage, drying out on my dresser. Your livery is at the abbey, soaking. You nearly ruined it, I can tell you. Mr. Carson howled about it for an hour when he saw the state of it. Your shoes are likewise utterly doomed. You’ll have to let the leather dry out before you can wear them again.” 

“I’m sorry that I’ve been such a bother-“ 

“Oh Thomas, don’t be sorry.” Mrs. Hughes said, grinning in good humor. “You’ve given Mr. Carson something fresh to complain about; I should be thanking you. It’s got him off the subject of my cooking.” 

“Your cooking is excellent.” Thomas grumbled irritably, “Mr. Carson is spoilt by Mrs. Patmore.” 

“You never cease to impress me with your ability to turn a compliment into an insult.” 

They continued to walk together in smart silence, shoes crunching in the dirt underneath. But the silence between them didn’t last for long as the sound of a car roaring down the lane behind them caused the pair of them to quickly divert to the shoulder. Dust came flying up the road, a black racing car gleaming in the middle of the flurry as weeds whipped in its drag. 

Thomas looked over his shoulder, slightly irked for how fast the man was driving on a simple country road. If he didn’t know any better- 

But his eyes widened as he saw just who it was behind the wheel. 

“Oh-“ Thomas stuttered out as Tom drove past only to practically slam on the breaks and skid in the dirt. He left a hundred foot drag in the road. tires digging into the red mud beneath them, and threw the break on to jump out of the car without even bothering to open the door. 

“Oh for Heaven’s sake.” Mrs. Hughes snapped, far from pleased as Tom came barreling around the side of the car to launch himself at Thomas. 

Thomas’ heart both sank and soared- anxiety and fierce love battling for dominance as Tom hoisted him briefly into the air for his enthusiasm on being reunited. 

“Mr. Branson,” Mrs. Hughes tried to talk him down, it did very little good. “Mr. Branson-!” 

“I came as soon as I heard-“ Tom blurted out, setting Thomas back down on his feet. 

“Mr. Branson if you’d be so kind-“ 

“I won’t let you be drug through the dirt,” Tom’s face was pale but growing flushed; it seemed he too was battling with warring emotions as he clutched at Thomas' face with iron fingers. Thomas shook under his grip, suddenly wanting to spill his soul to Tom. To tell him everything horrific that had incurred in his absence. 

_“Why did you leave me?”_ Thomas wanted to scream at him, even though he knew exactly why and did not blame Tom in the slightest. 

“Tom-“ Thomas choked out his name. 

“Mr. Branson this is really most unseemly-“ Mrs. Hughes had all but been forgotten by the pair of them. Tom’s name on Thomas’ lips seemed to be an ignition for the man. He surged forward and kissed him hard upon the lips. 

“Mr. Branson!” Mrs. Hughes shouted, angrily. 

Tom stuttered, remembering himself, and yanked back from Thomas’ lips to wipe his own with the back of his hand. He stuttered, trying to summon an excuse as he flushed before the irate ex-housekeeper. 

Mrs. Hughes looked ready to whap him with her handbag, eyes narrowed irritably and nostrils flaring in a scowl. 

“Mrs. Hughes.” Tom ran his hands shakily through his hair, “I wanted to thank you for giving Thomas shelter in our time of need-“ 

_“Our_ time of need, is it?” Mrs. Hughes warned, “Funny, I only recall him on the run in the rain-“ 

“I had to go with Henry to London-“ Tom beseeched. Mrs. Hughes did not look impressed. 

“Did you?” She challenged. “Well I hope your trip was nice.”   
Tom stuttered for words, at a loss as Mrs. Hughes continued walking up the road. 

“Mrs. Hughes-!” Tom begged, trotting off after her. Thomas finished up the line, unsure of what else to do but follow as Mrs. Hughes walked right past the car and kept up on the lane. “Mrs. Hughes, I can explain.” 

“I don’t require an explanation, Mr. Branson.” Mrs. Hughes snapped, “Only civilized English order.” 

“Do I not give you that?” 

“You give me the exact opposite of that.” 

Unable to leave the car behind, Tom backtracked to jump into the driver’s seat again, pulling the car out of break and into gear as he rolled slowly after Mrs. Hughes. She seemed determined to walk the rest of the way to the abbey, absolutely uncaring for the easier ride that could surely be offered if she so chose. At her heels, Thomas kept dead silent for fear of upsetting her even more, certain she was close to exploding. 

He didn’t know why, but the idea of Mrs. Hughes shouting and railing scared him more than Mr. Carson. 

“Please, Mrs. Hughes.” Tom beseeched, “I beg of you, understand me. I didn’t want to leave him-“ 

“This is not about you leaving!” Mrs. Hughes snapped, unwilling to hear another word, “This is about you frolicking around with a mentally unstable man who is in no position to refuse you-“ 

“Surely you can’t think-!” 

“Oh but I can, Mr. Branson.” Mrs. Hughes cut him off once again. “I can and I will. You should have never taken up with Thomas. He’s unwell and confused.” 

“He’s perfectly fine!” Tom waved a flippant hand at Thomas, completely unaware Thomas had spent the weekend throwing up his weight in stomach acid. 

“Carrying on with an ouija board, do you have no shame?” Mrs. Hughes wasn’t so much arguing by this point as much as she was spouting her inner irritations, “You know perfectly well those sorts of boards are not of God’s hands and still you feel inclined to play around with them! And to insist that Lady Sybil’s sweet spirit would somehow take you up with numerology!” 

“But she did-“ 

“And then to lark about on the gallery floor where children were sleeping. I couldn’t be more disappointed in you if I tried-!” 

“I was in the throws of love!” Tom cried out to the heavens, sending birds scattering from the trees. Mrs. Hughes turned on him with a vicious expression of derision that looked completely out of place on her sweet face. 

“You’ll be in the throws of something when his Lordship has his way with you.” 

She stopped walking, Tom stopped the car. Thomas nearly ran into them both. 

“Then let him hang us!” Tom argued. 

“You and Thomas both-“ Mrs. Hughes scoffed, “No one is hanging anyone!” 

“…. Please get in the car.”   
“No thank you.” 

A beat of silence passed, the pair of them locked eye to eye. Thomas was almost wilting from the side effects. He shuffled from toe to toe, unsure of what to say or do. 

Tom stoically reached for the handle of his door, throwing the car into break as he opened the door and slid out to hold it for Mrs. Hughes. He looked like the chauffeur again despite his smarter dress. Mrs. Hughes did not make to get into the car but did not walk on. Thomas just waited, feeling like he was suddenly observing a greek drama instead of two people on the side of a peaceful country road. 

Who would give first? Mrs. Hughes or Tom Branson? 

“…Please.” Tom repeated. “Allow me to drive you to the abbey.” 

“…It would be faster.” Thomas mumbled to his shoes unwilling to meet Mrs. Hughes’ glare. 

“The lord will carry me swiftly to the abbey on my two sure feet in good enough time.” Mrs. Hughes argued, her tone icy and bitter. 

“But the devil’s car is so shiny and sleek- look at the interior leather?” Tom offered cheekily. 

Mrs. Hughes rolled her eyes, scowling. 

It was with great irritation that she finally bowed to Tom’s whims, icily entering the car and sliding over till she was against the far door. Thomas was next, the buffer for the pair of them as Tom got back in the car and slammed the door to put the car back into gear shift. 

The car started up again, and the pair of them continued on at a much faster pace. Tom kept one arm on the wheel, the other behind Thomas to hold him against the shoulders. Mrs. Hughes kept her eyes forward with an iron will and pretended not to notice. 

“Robert’s in a foul mood, an no mistake.” Tom spoke up, cutting the awkward silence short. Clearly he was going to force conversation until it spawned naturally. “Mary rang and told Henry so. I’m ready to rip off her her head for all her meddling. She just couldn’t leave it be! But I’ve called in an alley, so do you worry.” Tom added. Thomas didn’t like his malicious tone. 

“Should I be worried?” Mrs. Hughes scowled from the other side of the car, “Is an army of angry Irishman about to descend upon the house?” 

“Hardly.” Tom scoffed, “Edith is coming down from Brancaster with Lord Hexam. He’s furious. I’ve been on the phone, as you can tell!” Tom added with a flippant wave of the hand. 

“But Lady Edith is in Greece-“ Mrs. Hughes said incredulous. 

“Actually, no.” Tom admitted, “They returned after a week in January. She couldn’t stand being apart from Marigold.” 

No one was really surprised. 

The silence just carried on, with Mrs. Hughes glaring at the road and Tom sweating in the driver’s seat. 

“What do you want me to say?” Tom demanded of the silent car, “That I’m sorry for loving a man?” 

“I want you to say that you’re sorry for behaving like a heathen while the cat’s away.” Mrs. Hughes corrected icily. 

“I’m sorry for behaving like a heathen while the cat was away.” Tom repeated dutifully, Mrs. Hughes just shook her head, though her expression softened slightly. 

“That’s not good enough.” 

Tom scoffed, at a loss as he looked from Mrs. Hughes to the road. 

“…We’re in the wrong, Tom.” Thomas mumbled, “Best just accept that now.” 

“Absolutely not.” Tom snapped, “Love is never wrong.” and with that he held tighter to Thomas’ far shoulder. 

Mrs. Hughes said nothing to this, though Thomas noted she tilted her head slightly to the left as if in agreement. 

When the abbey bloomed into view, there were already several cars out front. The chauffeur and hall boy were unloading case after case, helped along by Andy who directed traffic as Tom pulled up on the outskirts of the drive to avoid running over a mountainous pile of leather valises. 

As Tom threw the car back into break and turned off the engine, he opened the door wide again to allow both Thomas and Mrs. Hughes out. Thomas extended his hand to Mrs. Hughes as did Tom. Thomas noted Mrs. Hughes took both their hands, despite no doubt still being angry at Tom. Tom slammed the car door, walking around the front of the motorcar that had no doubt driven Lord and Lady Grantham home. 

Andy practically tripped over the gravel to run to them. Thomas panicked, certain Andy had heard everything and was coming to give Thomas a piece of his mind. Instead, he took that moment to speak to Mrs. Hughes, pale faced and sweating. 

“Mrs. Hughes!” Andy stuttered, nervous tripping up his tongue. “Mr. Carson’s in the library with his lordship. He’s been shouting for half an hour now. It’s awful, I can hear it all the way from the entrance hall-!” 

“I will handle Mr. Carson, Andrew.” Mrs. Hughes warned. 

“Is Lord Hexam here?” Tom asked hopefully. 

“No, sir.” Andy admitted, still able to meet Tom’s eye. Clearly he’d not been informed about the details of the horrors. “He rang shortly and said he would be arriving Friday morning. They missed their train.” 

Tom pursed his lips, irritated. “Fine.” He muttered to himself, “We’ll have to hold our own till he gets here.” 

“Lady Mary won’t tell his Lordship what’s going on.” Andy admitted, practically bursting at the seams to tell someone the news. “He’s hot around the collar about it.” 

“Of course!” Tom sneered, “Because that’s more dramatic and fun for her.” He stormed off for the front door, only to turn around and jerk his head for Thomas to follow. 

Thomas was unsure if he should, but reasoned that between entering through the forbidden front door or going around back and having to face the rest of befuddled staff, he’d take the front door any day. He followed forward, Mrs. Hughes at his elbow, and the pair of them carefully stepped up to the front door to brush the bottoms of their dirty shoes upon the stoop before they entered the entrance hall. 

Tom went through first, shrugging off his hat and coat to take Mrs. Hughes. Thomas had neither, horribly undressed without even a coat or a vest to wear. The fact of the matter was none of Mr. Carson’s clothes fit him and the sooner he was back into his own wardrobe, the better. He was even having to wear Mr. Carson’s shoes, practically swimming in the ancient leather so that he felt a bit like a clown while he walked. 

Sure to Andy’s word, fighting could be heard as they crossed the main hall together. Lord Grantham’s voice was obvious above all the rest. 

_“—Do you know how long I’ve been looking forward to this trip, Mary? How much it meant to me—?”_

_“Well you needed to—“_

_“Then why won’t you just tell me?!”_ Lord Grantham demanded in a bellow. Thomas shuddered, the last vestiges of his courage fading fast. 

He suddenly realized as they approached the library door what was about to occur and stopped dead even as Tom reached for the door handle. Mrs. Hughes looked over her shoulder, only to see Thomas pale and sweating, a few good paces behind them and shaking upon the oriental carpet. 

She came back to his side, taking his hand. 

“Come now. Steady on.” She urged softly, just as she’d done over the weekend when he hadn’t been able to quite vomiting. “Steady on. You’re a brave man, you can take this.” 

Really? Thomas wasn’t so sure he could. Mrs. Hughes was certainly very generous. 

Tom was stuck in the difficult position of wanting to comfort Thomas but being unable to do so in public. The most he could do was come and stand at Thomas’ side, gazing longing at his face as Thomas took one step to the library, then another. 

“I’m here with you.” Tom murmured, lending Thomas what strength he could in that moment, “I won’t let them hurt you.” 

“No one is going to hurt you, period.” Mrs. Hughes corrected Tom tersely. “No one is going to tar and feather you, we just want to get to the bottom of what’s being going on.” 

“We’ll tell them and we’ll head for Liverpool tonight.” Tom assured him softly. “We’ll take Sybbie and the three of us will head out on the eight o’clock train. I’ve already bought our tickets while I was at the station-“ 

“Let’s speak to Lord Grantham first.” Mrs. Hughes cut him off hastily, suddenly sounding slightly panicked at the prospect of Tom and Thomas just taking up flight like birds into the evening sun. 

“All will be well.” Tom said as they arrived back to the library door. “Don’t be afraid.” 

“… For once we are in agreement.” Mrs. Hughes admitted, her voice dry. The three of them stood before the wooden barrier, beyond which lay a hot tempered family and an ill prepared butler. Tom reached out and took the door knob in hand once again. 

“Just so you know. “Tom whispered, so softly only Thomas and Mrs. Hughes could truly hear with any clarity, “If I could, I would kiss you in this moment.” 

Mrs. Hughes looked away, pretending she had not heard. Thomas closed his eyes, the ghost of Tom’s un given kiss upon his lips, making his skin ache as Tom opened the door. 

Light streamed in through the library windows, throwing the room into full color. 

Lord and Lady Grantham were back, with Lord Grantham pacing angrily in his day suit and Lady Grantham sitting on the couch, Lady Mary by her side. Both women were stony, each falling back on their apathetic breeding to keep from nervous collapse in the face of Lord Grantham’s wrath. He stormed in circles between his two sitting couches, furious at being denied answers and his full French vacation. By the serving station, Mr. Carson kept watch over a lone tea set that no one was yet to drink from. In his livery and slicked hair, he seemed a man back in his element save for the fact that he his hands were lightly trembling at his sides. Tom strode into the library with purpose, proud and unbending; Thomas merely slunk in his wake sticking close to his shadow. He almost wanted to hide behind Tom, to let Tom do all the talking instead. Yet Tom was inexperienced and unwise when it came to this sort of horror- if anything it needed to be Thomas so that Tom could remain safe. Mrs. Hughes gently closed the library door, effectively shutting the group in so that they were locking in a boxing ring. 

“Alright, enough with the mystery.” Lord Grantham spat, fury broiling over in his voice and facial expressions. Thomas kept his eyes on the carpet, frightened to death, “I’ve been on and off boats and trains all weekend to get back here. I’ve come hot foot and I demand to know what’s going on! I left this house, naively, in your charge Barrow- and I expect an explanation from you! Lady Mary says you have something untoward to confess, and even Carson won’t say a word— now I hear Lord Hexam is on his way to the house?! That you called him in all the way from Greece-!” Lord Grantham added angrily to Tom who did not so much as flinch. “When he and Edith were enjoying their first bit of happiness-!” 

“First of all, they’ve been back for more than two weeks!” Tom boldly cut Lord Grantham off, “Edith didn’t want to be parted from Marigold, so you can stop actin’ like I’ve flung her to the dogs. She was more than happy to come down when she heard Mary was meddling!” 

“I have not been meddling!” Lady Mary shot up from the couch, fists clenched at the ugly insinuation on her character, “It’s you that’s been meddling-“ 

“Will someone tell me what the _bloody hell_ is going on!?” Lord Grantham roared, deafening both Tom and Lady Mary. Nearly everyone bristled from the foul language and volume. 

“Robert.” Lady Grantham whispered, trying to calm her husband down before he gave himself another ulcer. 

Mr. Carson had asked Thomas only a few nights before to face the music when Lord Grantham returned- humbly and honestly. Tom was three minutes way from making a romantic declaration worthy of Shakespeare and Lady Mary was clearly going to remain silent just to make the punishment stretch on longer. 

“I will, M’lord.” Thomas spoke up, having to fight to gain the courage to speak at a normal volume. Even so, he did not raise his eyes from the carpet. 

“Then do it man!” Lord Grantham spat, “Before I lose my patience with you!” 

Thomas closed his eyes, unwilling to even stare at the threadbare Persian rug beneath him as he admitted to the worst. His masochistic nature made it almost easy to say, though his petrified brain was reeling in panic as it considered every scenario from Gaol to a public execution. 

“Thursday night, Lady Mary caught Mr. Branson and I in bed with one another.” 

Lord Grantham did a double take, face draining of blood. “…What?” He demanded, tone soft and blindsided. It was almost more frightening than the cursing and shouting. 

More of an explanation was needed, so Thomas would oblige. Vomit was on his tongue, making his mouth burn with acid, “Mr. Branson and I have been seeing one another in secret for a month now. We fell in love over New Years, and have been hiding it from everyone in the house.” 

The silence that fell was deafening. 

Lady Grantham was gaping like a fish upon the couch, desperately gathering the wits to speak (though it was clearly an earnest effort), “But…. But- Tom is-“ 

“I can see the good on both sides of the pasture.” Tom said proudly, “And Sybil was the only woman I have ever loved.” It was with fierce devotion that he continued, spilling his heart blindly even while Thomas shrunk into his shadow with horror, “I love Thomas, I gladly proclaim it! And I won’t have you drag him through the mud or make him suffer- not when he’s done absolutely nothing wrong-“ 

“Nothing wrong?!” Lady Mary couldn’t stand it, too furious to let it go quietly, “I caught you two in bed with one another, like animals- three doors down from my child! From your child! And you claim he’s done nothing wrong?!” 

Lord Grantham was yet to speak, staring agog. Mr. Carson was much the same way, unable to even meet his master’s eye as he instead kept his eyes locked on the fire between the two sitting couches. Shocking how, even with the fierce blaze behind the iron grate, no one could draw much warmth from the room. It was like all the heat and life had been sucked out of the house. 

Tom started to argue, but Thomas cut across him. Tom was going to fight their corner, but that was because he was still underneath the naive impression they even had a corner. 

He would learn. 

“…I’ve spoken to Mr. Carson about this, M’lord.” Thomas said, drawing a shuddering breath to continue on, “He and Mrs. Hughes know everything. I will go with whatever your lordship decides to do. I only ask- beg rather-“ best to stay humble, “That Mr. Branson might not be punished. It may not appear as such to you, M’lord, but I do truly care for him and…” But Thomas couldn’t carry on. What could he even say anymore that Lord Grantham would hear or accept? He’d run out of options. 

In a shocking move of bold declaration, Tom reached out a hand to hold Thomas by the small of his back. Thomas’ eyes flew wide, almost hoping to step away from Tom to keep him from touching Thomas in front of the others. Yet it was too late. Tom refused to give sway to cowardice or good sense, instead holding him tight to his side so that they were pressed hip to hip in their joined fight. Lord Grantham emitted a noise of deep affront. 

“Mary’s been heckling Thomas all over the house!” Tom snapped, still not finished with the eldest Crawley daughter who only scoffed from her mother’s side. “She had him in tatters by the time she spoke to you on the phone. She’s been dragging him by the neck, scare mongering him!” 

Though Thomas was not privy to see it, Mrs. Hughes shot Mr. Carson an ugly knowing look. The old butler did not return it, instead choosing to remain oblivious to Lady Mary’s sins. Even in poor light, he would not shift his loyalties. 

“I will do what is necessary to protect the dignity of this house!” Lady Mary cried out, as if shocked that Tom would ever forget this. 

“Ah-“ Tom sneered, choosing the sarcastic route (unwise given their positions), “That explains why you’ve never dabbled in scandal yourself-“ 

“I refuse to listen-“ Lady Mary spat, cutting across Tom before he could go on. 

“You’ll be listening when Edith gets here!” Tom shouted; for as much as Lady Mary avoided, Tom confronted head on, “Bertie is ready to go to war- you’ll remember how fond he was of his cousin, the late Marquess? The minute I told him the full story he swore to back me on any corner!” 

“I don’t care who you have in your corner.” Lady Mary said, cold. “It’s not a corner I will respect.” 

“Whatever happened to the tolerant Mary who liked to joke about Thomas’ sexuality every time she got a chance? Is it not funny anymore?” 

“Not when he’s wrapped you in a guise.” She sneered. 

“He’s not wrapped me in a guise!” Weirdly this seemed to have gotten underneath Tom’s skin more than any other comment that day. He was piping furious! “I’ll admit there was a time when we were hardly friendly but I know him now and I couldn’t love him more if I tried! I’ll defend him to the end to keep him from falling victim to you-“ 

“Tom-“ Lady Grantham desperately tried to reel the conversation back in to sane grounds. It was like attempting to dock a whale on the shore of a rocky beach, “No one is eager to make Barrow fall victim to anything-“ 

“Really?!” Tom was speaking far too rudely to the Lady of the house. He needed to watch his mouth in front of Lord Grantham, “It seems the high and mighty Lady Mary would be damn eager to put him in an early grave.” 

“Given his state I doubt I’d have to try hard-“ Lady Mary sneered. Thomas’ cheeks burned in shame, the marbles rolling wildly in his head at the ugly insinuation. 

Lord Grantham had had enough. For the first time since the blow fell, he spoke. Thomas had honestly expected him to be blindsided, but Lord Grantham was unnervingly steady.   
Like he’d already made up his mind. 

“Enough!” Lord Grantham spat, silencing both his daughter and Tom. He turned, looking down on Lady Mary from where she sat stonily on the couch. “… That’s below the belt, Mary.” 

Lady Mary looked to the fireplace instead of her father. She might have looked like she didn’t care, but Thomas had a feeling she did. That she, like him, had a way of letting her mouth get ahead of her till it wreaked havoc and ruined everything. He tried not to take her insult personally. Even in all the hell she’d given him over the past few weeks… he remembered a time they’d sat side by side on a park bench and listened to a duck egg peep. 

It seemed like a lifetime ago.   
In a way, it was. 

“Barrow, I won’t pretend that I understand your nature but to argue with it is like arguing with the clouds for raining.” Lord Grantham began. He did not sound to be in a generous nature. Thomas bowed his head preparing for the worst, for the phone to be picked up and the police to be called. 

“It is a part of nature, and you cannot change what you are. You did not ask to be the way you are, and there is no man among us without sin. I accept that-“ Lord Grantham pursed his lips, eyes blazing in anger as he stared at Tom. Tom looked taken aback, “But you… are not confused. You are brash, and wild without control. You fell in love with a woman above your station, only to steal her away to Ireland and then abandon her there!” 

“That’s in the past-!” Tom tried to get them back on the correct subject, cheeks burning with shame and sorrow at the mention of his beloved Sybil. 

“That is my daughter!” Lord Grantham shouted, insulted by Tom’s misplaced error of thinking her forgotten, “And she will never be the past to me.” 

Tom opened and closed his mouth several times, his hand slipping a bit from Thomas’ back. Thomas wished he could take Tom into his arms, stand in support with him even if he had to do so in silence… but to act brashly now would be suicide. As a man who’d tried to kill himself twice, Thomas felt he was an authority on the subject of premature death. 

“You have the ability to be better, to do better, and still you lead him along. You act in foolish hedonism for the sake of trouble alone. Cause him to act inappropriately in his confusion and weakness!” Lord Grantham chastised, causing Tom to huff with indignation. “No, Tom, I will not listen. Not when I know that you are in the wrong. For all Barrow’s mistakes, I highly doubt he made the first move. Not after this summer when his mind became so frail.” 

And suddenly Thomas was put on a horrible spot as Lord Grantham turned to him to confirm his ugly predictions, “Who made the first move, Barrow?” He asked, cold and stony. 

Thomas could not answer. After a lifetime of being told to keep such actions silent and away from public eye, Thomas did not know how to react to them being thrown into the spotlight. He’d rather walk into the servant’s hall arse naked- at least then he’d have some meagre form of dignity. This? This was without mercy. Without conscience. 

“…Thomas?” Lord Grantham amended his tone, turning slightly soft as if to make up for the earlier sting, “Who made the first move? When did this begin?” 

“… Mr….” Thomas had to swallow several times, mouth dry and stinging with acid, “Mr. Branson kissed me the night Larry Gray insulted us at dinner, M’lord.” 

“Oh my god.” Lady Grantham was staggered by the revelation, “We were right down the hall.” She put her head in her hand, rubbing at a forming headache. 

“And what did you do?” Lord Grantham asked. “Humor me, Thomas.” He said bitterly, though there was absolutely no humor to be found in this situation. 

Ashamed, Thomas looked away from Tom as he spoke, “… I slapped him.”   
He felt like he might vomit or faint. He was unsure which one would happen first. 

“As I suspected.” Lord Grantham said icily. Tom huffed, trying to explain- 

“Well- it came out of no where at first-“ 

“Yes it bloody well did!” Lord Grantham cursed again, “I am incredibly disappointed in you, Barrow.” 

_Oh goody now it’s my turn_ , Thomas thought, miserably. 

“I trusted you. I have given you more second chances, more rope than any servant I know! We forgave your initial sins of stealing and lying, allowed you to continue on in the house even after James!” Thomas whispered at the ugly memory, “Have we not been kind masters?” Lord Grantham demanded of him, “Have we not been kind and generous?” 

“…Yes, M’lord.” Thomas whispered, unable to speak loudly lest he crack and break into a thousand ugly pieces. “More than generous. Charitable beyond all compare.” 

“And still you allow yourself to run away with notions of my son-in-law!” Lord Grantham thundered, shocked at the gaul of Thomas. Thomas was sickened by the insinuation. He’d risen above his station, forgotten his place, and with the worst person imaginable. “I will not deny that I am incredibly unhappy with you, Thomas… But I confess, my real anger in this moment lays with Tom.” 

Tom seemed shocked at how the events were un-spiraling, looking first for Lady to Lord Grantham as if hoping they’d turn around and change their minds. As if this whole conversation would wind back up and start over again with better replay. 

“You should have never allowed this nonsense to flourish and fruit. You have shaken up a man who has already been shaken up enough!” Lord Grantham scorned a finger up and pointing in Tom’s face, “A man who has tried to kill himself-!” 

“Twice.” Mrs. Hughes added miserably from behind Tom and Thomas. 

“Twice!” Lord Grantham scoffed, now turning to pace again. It seemed he thought better when moving, spoke more eloquently, “And to imagine it might become three-!” 

Thomas turned away so that Tom’s hand slipped fully away from the small of his back. He took a moment to ground himself, staring at the carpet by Mrs. Hughes’ worn black shoes. Lord Grantham did not know it, but it nearly had become three when Lady Mary had called him back from France. Thomas had known that if Mrs. Hughes hadn’t opened the door… he would have killed himself. 

Maybe this was a truly horrible idea. Maybe, despite Tom’s adoration and Thomas’ longing, there was no place for their Gaelic love in the real world. Maybe this fairytale was doomed for a fiery ending like the estate Tom had lit for an angry mob. 

“He would never-“ Tom tried to say, but as he turned to look at Thomas and found him with his back to the room, the words died in his mouth. The shame within Thomas was unbelievable, unparalleled. Maybe Tom had thought him beyond it. Maybe Tom had thought he was better despite the summer. 

How could he explain to Tom that he would never be okay? That he would wake with a guillotine over his head for the rest of his life? 

“…For the time, I think it would be best if Barrow left the house.” Lord Grantham said. Thomas winced, bringing a hand up to his face to cover his darkening expression. Mrs. Hughes looked on him in that moment with terrible pity. Where would he go? How would he live? The effort seemed impossible. Only death lay beyond the abbey’s doors. “Carson can step in as butler until I decide what to do-“ 

“But-“ Tom begged for mercy, the act of bravado dropped to finally show his true frustrations and fears, “But this isn’t his fault- he’s done nothing wrong-“ 

“Tom not another word out of you!” Lord Grantham thundered. He seemed incredibly ashamed of Tom, “Not another word.” 

Thomas could not turn back around. Could not face the family when he knew now that they had unknowingly pronounced his doom and death. 

“Barrow is fragile, mentally corrupted, and you are not! How could I possibly allow him to live in the house, when clearly you’re incapable of refraining from taking advantage?” Lord Grantham said. 

“Taking advantage?!” Tom didn’t even know how to start addressing that ugly concept so instead he went straight back into the bull-headed bravery, “Throw him out if you want, but I’ll be leaving with him and taking Sybbie with us! I’ve already called my brother Kieran; we’re going to Liverpool until you’ve all come to your senses-“ 

“Come to our- come to our senses?!” Lord Grantham thundered, back to shouting again, “You claim to be willing to drag an innocent child across the country in a wild bout of buggery and heathenism and you say that I must come to my bloody senses?! Tom Branson mark my words, I do not care if you are her father or no- you take her from the safety of this house and I will call the police on you!” 

Thomas winced audibly, clapping a hand over his mouth as he continued to stare at the carpet by Mrs. Hughe’s feet.   
There it was. His worst fear in the flesh.   
Tom was silent, dumbstruck by Lord Grantham’s “unbelievable cruelty”. 

 

An ugly silence fell over the room. Though Thomas could not turn around to see it, Tom and Lord Grantham were staring one another down waiting for the other to budge or break. 

“… My God.” Tom whispered, shocked, “I never thought you the kind-“ 

“Then you thought wrong.” Lord Grantham snapped. 

“So then-“ Tom’s tone grew ugly and emotional, “So then love means nothing to you-“ 

“This isn’t love.” Lord Grantham refused to bend to the idea, “I don’t know what it is but it isn’t love. No-“ he corrected himself, “I know exactly what it is. It’s weakness meeting boredom. Barrow is fragile, so he bent to your childish games-“ 

“Fragile, fragile, fragile!” Tom hated the word in that moment, “Thomas isn’t fragile! He’s incredibly strong!” 

“Mr. Branson.” Mrs. Hughes spoke up again, stern; Lord Grantham used her as a momentary pause, turning away from Tom to clutch at the shoulder of his wife for strength. She held at his arm, bitter but resigned. Thomas did not turn around until Mrs. Hughes made him, forcing Thomas’ pale and paranoid face to become the focal point of the conversation so every man and woman could witness his ‘weakness’ in the flesh. Tom winced. 

“Thomas is very fragile.” Mrs. Hughes corrected him, standing close to Thomas’ other side so that he was effectively sandwiched between them. “Please believe me when I say that I do not utter such words lightly. He has been staying at our cottage for the past three days… and I only just got him to eat this morning for the first time since he arrived. He is very fragile.” 

Tom reached up again to put a tender hand on the small of Thomas’ back, drawing unnecessarily close to whisper to him. As if no one in the room would be able to hear what with the horribly swelling silence. 

“Are you alright?” Tom whispered. Thomas shook his head, unable to say much more without vomiting. Tom brought his other hand up, using it to clutch at Thomas’ arm. 

“S’like I can’t breath sometimes.” Thomas admitted, horribly embarrassed, “Like my… chest is on fire.” 

“S’not your fault you’re in a panic.” Tom urged softly, rubbing at the small of his back with loving fingers, “Once everything is calmed down you’ll see-“ 

“But nothing will be calmed Tom, don’t you see?” Thomas corrected him, looking up to his face with pained longing. The pair of them stared at one another, in that moment of agony oblivious to all else in the room. “This is the end. Any minute now someone is going to pick up the phone and call the police- and I’ll be thrown into Briarcliffe or Gaol-“ 

“No one is calling the police, Barrow.” Lord Grantham went against his earlier words, soundly slightly reproachful as he continued on to say, “What I said before I said in anger. You cannot take Sybbie from the house, but it is likewise my last wish that this should get out into the papers. The scandal would be outrageous. You certainly cannot stay here anymore, but I will not be throwing you to the dogs. Not when to do so would damn the house-“ 

“You throw him out, we’re going to Liverpool.” Tom said with renewed strength-

“You’re going nowhere!” Lord Grantham would not even allow Tom to finish the full sentence, an ugly finger pointed vindictively in his face. Suddenly Thomas could remember when Lady Sybil had received much the same treatment, how Lord Grantham had tried to squash her goals before being bucked off— an inexperienced rider on a too-wild horse. “He is leaving, you are not. You leave, I will keep you from your daughter! For her own sake! Until you can control your senses, how can you be trusted?” 

“And where will he go?” Tom demanded, incredulous, “He has nowhere to go! You’ll just— just—“ Tom couldn’t speak he was so irate, “Just throw him out?!” 

“He cannot stay in the abbey, Tom!” Lord Grantham would not be swayed, “You’ve lost your senses and he’s too weak to stop you!” 

“Again with this _weak_ dribble.” Tom hissed, looking away. Lord Grantham might have carried on arguing endlessly had it not been for Lady Grantham stepping up and taking the charge. Lord Grantham collapsed into her old seat, rubbing his sweaty brow bitterly as Lady Mary patted his arm consolingly. Poor Lord Grantham… was there anything worse than your servant’s rebelling and your almost-wayward-son egging them on? 

“Tom, he slapped you!” Lady Grantham urged, hardly shouting like her husband but still clearly upset. When she got mad, her voice turned to an odd hoarse-whisper so that her eyes were popping but her volume was dropping, “That’s hardly consent-“ 

Tom defensively cupped Thomas’ waist in his hand, once more dragging him back over so that they were linked side by side. Thomas was certain his face was about to catch on fire- “He was shocked- it took him a bit to get over it, but we moved past it. I was in the wrong for leaping on him, I admit it, but we had a conversation about it and we decided to give it a try and here we are!” Tom’s fingers clenched about his waist, “And we’re happy!” 

“You can hardly call this happy.” Lady Grantham scoffed, gesturing with an irate hand. 

“We are happy!” Tom snapped, refusing to have anyone doubt him on such an irrefutable fact. 

“Really?” Lady Grantham scoffed, “Because right now he looks like he’s about to faint.” 

Tom looked to him but Thomas could not raise his eyes. He wanted to sink into the floor and never be found again- this entire conversation was like his own personal hell. 

“…Are you happy?” Tom asked him softly. The silence that came next was ugly and all of his own devices. Thomas did not let it go on for long. 

“… I love you.” He mumbled, petrified of speaking louder than whisper in a room full of critical viewers, “But I am terrified.” 

He shook his head when Tom did not immediately try to defend their escapades, “Because I know what happens next, and you don’t-“ The call, the arrest, the brutality, the harsh conviction, the long slow wait to death, “You have no idea the horror we’re about to undergo, but I’ve seen it a thousand times up close. And now I’m about to see it again… and there’s no escape.” 

His heart started to ache, his chest pounding in a fiery pain. Thomas reached up to rub at his breast methodically where it hurt the worst- it felt almost like acid reflux. 

“There’s no escape, and we all die in jail-“ Thomas mumbled, “Or in a village square beaten to death by strangers-“ 

“Don’t talk like that.” Tom urged him, soft and loving in his ear. “S’not so, I promise you, darlin-“ 

But hearing Thomas be called ‘darlin’ seemed to be the end of Lord Grantham’s slowly rebuilt patience. He was back off the couch again, by his wife’s side, and though she retook her seat he remained standing as he began to pace once more, fuming. 

“I won’t discuss this anymore.” He snapped, “We’re going around in circles and getting nothing accomplished. Barrow must leave the abbey, today. Possibly permanently. I’m unsure… I need time to think-“ Lord Grantham just seemed eager for this whole confrontation to be over so he could get back to his tea and solace. 

“Where-?!” Tom started up again, ready to fight the good fight, but an unexpected voice drowned Tom out as Mrs. Hughes spoke up once again. 

“He’ll stay with me and Mr. Carson,” she paused, looking at Lord Grantham, “If your lordship allows it?” 

Mr. Carson rolled his eyes to the ceiling, possibly asking God for strength. Lord Grantham considered it, momentarily silent as he tilted his head from side to side. Thomas sweated, wondering if he was going to vomit in front of the entire family or just into the first vase he saw when he walked outside. 

“I’ll allow it for the moment.” Lord Grantham finally murmured, an incredibly generous gesture given the state of things, “But it might not be a permanent solution. It may be better if we parted company completely to keep the family from scandal.” 

So in one day Thomas had lost his home, his job, and his security. The meager savings he had put together were not going to be enough to last him and when the money inevitably ran out, what would he do? Where would he go? How would he be able to make a living in a world that was slowly but surely forgetting about the service avenue? 

Thomas felt like at any moment he might suffer a nervous breakdown and collapse onto the floor. 

“I’m sorry, Barrow.” Lord Grantham spoke with greatest care, as though moments ago he’d not been shouting and cursing at Thomas. Thomas wondered if Lord Grantham was doing this now for the sake of his vulnerability. If he was worried he might push Thomas to another suicidal leap. “You’ve been dealt a very poor hand in your fragility by this family today. But I have to do what is best to protect my grandchildren. If you love them as much as you say, then I’m sure you understand.” 

Thomas thought of Sybbie being forced to grow up without a father. Of George being denied access to good schools due to ugly rumors that followed his family name. Of Marigold, possibly being given up by her new grandmother when she found out that Thomas and Tom were lovers- homosexuals in her midst. 

“I do.” Thomas couldn’t speak clearly, mumbling and muttering to keep his throaty whisper from being too obvious, “I do understand M’lord. Can I- retrieve some of my things? I— I have nothing at the Carson’s-“ 

“Make it quick and leave with haste.” Lord Grantham snapped, the end of his patience. 

“M’lord.” Thomas bowed his head one final time to the man he’d duped, dressed, and begged. “Excuse me.” 

He slipped away from Tom’s fingers, all but stumbling to the door of the library with the intention of taking his valise and shoving everything he owned into it. He doubted he would be given a second chance to come back to the abbey. Tom’s fingers had been so undeniably hot, even in that ugly moment, and now they were gone to be replaced by an eerie cold feeling that nothing could vanquish. Like there was nothing in the world but ice. Ice, air, and bone. 

It was the thought of Sybbie that kept him walking to the door- Sybbie who’d suffer the most in all of this but had never asked for it. Never even known. Her childhood innocence hung in the balance of his actions, and so Thomas did not stumble of stray as he reached the library door. 

Tom on the other hand was still wrapped up in the guise of hope- “Thomas-!” He threw all caution aside, trying to follow Thomas out of the library- angry at the world and every cruel man in it. Thomas looked around, shocked to find that Tom was almost upon him before Lord Grantham had his say: 

“You let him walk out!” Lord Grantham ordered, “He’s the one showing sense between the pair of you!” 

Tom froze at the sight of Thomas’ face. Whatever expression was there, Thomas would never know. He supposed it was something akin to death- pale and lifeless. “Think of Sybbie.” He whispered, a conversation only the pair of them would know. “Think of Sybbie, not of me. Stay here, Tom. Stay here and protect your daughter. She’s more important than me.” 

“But-“ Tom mumbled, weak and horrified. 

“I am so sorry, Tom.” Thomas didn’t know why he was saying it, only that it came from within like a well of truth; so many words had fallen from the place to shock others, maybe it was triggered by great stress, “I should have protected you from this.” 

Tom didn’t know what to stay.   
He stood, horrified and flabbergasted as Thomas turned away and finally walked out the library door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't forget to comment with questions or concerns if you have them!


	17. A Trophy Father's Trophy Son

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas' mother comes to visit. As does Dr. Kinsey. 
> 
> Meanwhile Mr. Carson and Thomas battle it out...   
> With Shakespeare.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has several trigger warnings including **graphic scenes of psychological horror and references to suicide**. If any of these things upset you please be aware they will be included. 
> 
> I hope everyone likes this chapter. It was exhausting to produce, given that this Saturday I'll be holding a very large garage sale. I wanted to get it out and published before I hit Friday so that I wouldn't have to worry about it over this weekend. I hope you like it! 
> 
> Likewise there will be multiple references to Shakespeare's works near the tail end of this chapter. Obviously I did not originally write the quotes.

It began just like before with a whispering in his brain, a rolling and plinking of marbles as they touched and collided with one another. Murmuring, murmuring, murmuring…. 

It made him numb, sucked at his warmth and feeling until all Thomas could do was stare down at the beaten grass beneath his feet. He could feel the spatula slipping further and further from his hands. 

Mrs. Hughes had wanted him to do something… She’d… She’d bade him to come outside and do something with the steaks for tonights dinner- god what was it? Something about… about… 

But the whispers overrode Thomas’ attempts to do as he’d been bidden. 

_Do it…_ the marbles commanded. _Do it. Do it, get it over with and do it-_

“Oh my-!” 

Mrs. Hughes voice jarred him, shocking Thomas so badly that he jumped and dropped the spatula he’d been holding. 

It was Tuesday afternoon, only a few hours beyond the mind grating conversation of the Downton library. Mrs. Hughes had helped Thomas to collect his things in a valise, and had taken him back to the cottage to help him settle down. He’d sat upon his bed, numb, until she’d bade him come back outside and help her make dinner for Mr. Carson. 

She’d given him a spatula and asked him to keep turning the beef wellington- he was braising it before it went in the oven. That’s what she’d wanted him to do… turn the beef. 

“Thomas?” Mrs. Hughes bent over to pick up his spatula, offering it back to him. But Thomas didn’t know if he could be trusted around cooking implements- open flames and knives. Instead he shook his head and sunk back down onto the stoop. 

“Mr. Carson called; the staff know.” Mrs. Hughes said as she took up his job of turning the beef. Thomas said nothing, his head in his hands. The stars were slowly starting to come out now. 

“Everyone is shocked, of course. But no one blames you.” Mrs. Hughes assured him at once. “Daisy shocked the life out of Mrs. Patmore by informing them all that she’d known from the start. You can imagine the ear chewing she got.” 

 

So now it seemed Daisy would be punished too. 

“… This is all my fault.” Thomas whispered, head bowed to the brittle grass and slush beneath his feet. 

“Thomas, if Mrs. Patmore got a throppin for every time she yelled at Daisy, she could retire to the Swiss Alps and take us all with her. Now let’s get these steaks wrapped.” 

Back in the house they went, but Thomas just couldn’t connect to the world around him. A whispering was filling his head, making him thick and cottony between the ears so that he could only sit or stumble. 

It was over. It was all over.   
He’d never get his job back at the abbey now; he’d never be with Tom again. Lord Grantham might even call the police, and god only knows what the out come of that would be. He could be jailed or sent to Briarcliffe. All this heartache for the simple sake of a night with Tom. 

For the sake of loving, of having a life worth living.   
But men like him had never been that lucky. 

“- of course my mother used to make pies too. Did your mother make pies?” 

Thomas hadn’t realized Mrs. Hughes was talking to him, and started as he looked around to find her in the middle of preparing dinner. It was completely black outside; he could see the moon through the backdoor window. How long had he been sitting at the kitchen table? How much had Mrs. Hughes said to him without realizing he wasn’t listening. 

“Uh… yeah.” Thomas mumbled, not even sure if his mother had made pies or not. He couldn’t focus. He couldn’t think. “Me mum… yeah.” 

“What was she like?” Mrs. Hughes asked, curious. 

Thomas couldn’t really remember, to be honest, “Busy.” He said lamely, “Had seven kids. If we wanted individual attention from her we had to start by being ill- or pretending to be. Once I had to stick a spoon down m’throat just so she’d hold me. It was my birthday.” He paused, shaking his head. “The things children do.” 

Mrs. Hughes was not happy to hear this. She pursed her lips, carefully wrapping the steaks in doughy pastry to be baked in the oven. 

“… I never had children.” She said, and though she might have been trying to sound aloof on the subject, Thomas could tell she was slightly sad. “I wish I had sometimes. It would have been nice to be a mother. It’s the one regret of my life.” 

This was an incredibly private admission; if Thomas had been more aware of himself, he might have banked on it and pressed for more details. As it was, he could not see past the wall of his own misery and stayed silent in his seat as Mrs. Hughes put their wrapped steaks into the oven. 

“… I wish you were my mother.” Thomas finally said. Mrs. Hughes froze, halfway through bending back up. “Maybe I wouldn’t have turned out this way, if you had been.” 

“… I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.” She said, turning back to the sink to wash her hands. 

 

For the next hour as the steaks cooked, Thomas sat silent in his chair. By the time dinner was ready, Thomas’ backside ached from staying still on unforgiving wood. Mrs. Hughes was making tea, her kitchen full of sumptuous smells. He wished he could appreciate it all; the beauty of the cottage, the kindness of her hospitality, the tastes of her food…. but it was like Thomas was staring at a painting instead of being immersed in a reality. He felt like he could just turn away at any moment and be in another room. Another place. Another time. 

_My darling…_

The faintest whisper began to tug at Thomas’ mind. He turned, sensing something ominous at the foot of the darkened stairs. 

But nothing was there. Just shadows and dust on wood grooves. 

_My darling…_

Thomas shuddered, shaking his head back and forth. He rubbed at his eyes suddenly feeling exhausted. 

“Thomas?”   
He glanced up to see Mrs. Hughes watching him worriedly. 

“Are you alright?” She asked, concerned. 

“.. I don’t feel good.” Thomas admitted, “I’m going to go to bed early.” 

He rose from the table, deciding that he would head upstairs and attempt to get some sleep. Maybe he just needed to lay down- to slip away from the world for awhile. Maybe then he’d feel more immersed in reality. The detachment was unnerving him. 

“At least have some supper.” Mrs. Hughes urged. “You haven’t eaten since this morning.” 

“M’not hungry. Thank you Mrs. Hughes.” Thomas mumbled. “Don’t worry about me.”

But he knew that she would. He appreciated it, or at least he tried to despite his detachment. 

Thomas stumbled upstairs, feeling like he might faint or careen into a wall if he didn’t sit down soon. He found himself all but toppling over into his bed, laying there face down for several minutes in spiraling confusion before having enough sense to turn over and lay on his back instead. 

It was another hour before Thomas had the strength or the sense of mind to stand up and put on his pajamas. 

~*~

Thomas was not the only one going hungry that night. 

Secluded in his bedroom, Tom consoled himself with a tall glass of whiskey and a cigarette by his desk window. His plans for explaining and eventual escape had been dashed. Now, stuck at zero with no way forward, Tom felt utterly powerless for the first time since losing Sybil. 

Thomas had been so put together, so calm even as the world around them fell apart. How did he possess the clarity to keep calm and go forward when Tom was ready to scream and light the curtains on fire? Was it just in his nature, or had he been conditioned by violence to keep calm under great stress? 

Tom took another sip of whiskey, letting it mull around in his mouth till his tastebuds were numb. 

A soft pittering of feet outside his door made Tom pause mid-sip, whiskey stinging the corners of his mouth. He swallowed forcibly, licking his lips as a knock came upon his door. 

He narrowed his eyes, an ugly hostile feeling growing inside of him. But when the door opened, it fled like a pack of birds into a setting sun. 

It was just Sybbie, escorted by her nanny and wearing a white nightgown. 

“Darlin…” Tom mumbled, pitching his cigarette clean out of his bedroom window and sitting his half-finished whiskey upon his desk. He opened his arms, love making his heart grow warm as Sybbie smiled and ran to him. She was holding a letter in her hand, and crawled up into his lap without further command to nuzzle her face against his open vest. Tom could not help the ugly protective feelings that swarmed him every time Sybbie showed her beautiful face. From the moment she’d been born, she’d been the apple of Tom’s eye, the light of his world, and now in one of his darker moments he felt that he needed to be near her. To hold her and love her again. Nanny Armstrong stood at the door, waiting to take her back. Tom glanced at her and found her awkwardly stiff where she stood. 

Perhaps she knew. Either way, he wanted her gone. 

“Can I have some alone time with my daughter?” Tom demanded of the woman, “Or am I not allowed that?” 

“Of course, Mr. Branson.” Nanny Armstrong replied at once. She turned, quaint, and closed the door behind her so that Sybbie and Tom were alone together in his room. Tom held his daughter tight, taking a small sip of whiskery to warm his throat. He felt like he’d never be cheerful again. 

“This is for you.” Sybbie said, straightening up in his lap to hand him his letter. Tom took it at once, setting his whiskey back down to open it with clumsy hands. Inside was a note written in large but smooth handwriting: _“Dear Papa. I love you very much. Sincerely, Sybil Branson.”_

Tom smiled, folding his letter back up and bringing it to his mouth for a lucky kiss. He tucked it into his breast pocket, determined to keep a hold of it forever. 

“What a lovely letter.” He said, and stroked Sybbie’s hair to plant a woozy kiss on her forehead. He wondered if she could smell the whiskey on him, “Thank you.” 

“Daddy are you sad?” Sybbie asked, spying his whiskey glass. Tom was too drunk to hide from his daughter. 

“I am. Shall I tell you why?” Tom offered. Sybbie tilted her head, listening. “It’ll be a secret between you and me.” 

She nodded, eager. 

“I’m in love with Thomas Barrow.” Tom said, softly. “And he’s been sent away.” 

Sybbie’s eyes widened instinctively, bright brown swallowed up by black. “You’re in love with him?” 

“I am.” Tom nodded, “I love him. I want to marry him, and kiss him, and be with him always. Are you surprised?” 

Sybbie, like most children, didn’t answer questions straight away. Instead, she asked a question of her own: “Why has he been sent away?” 

“Because we’re both men.” Tom explained, as softly and lovingly as he could. He hated informing his child of how cruel the world could be. If only they were in Ireland, free to be as they were- on their own at his family farm. He could see Sybbie frolicking in the fields, could imagine Thomas wearing rolled trousers and bailing hay with Tom alongside his siblings. This cold sterile country wasn’t for them. 

“Some people don’t like that two men could love each other. Do you not like that?” 

“I love Thomas.” Was all Sybbie said. Tom decided to take this as a positive tone of approval, and kissed her softly on her forehead again. Such a good child. Such a sweet child. 

“I love Thomas too…” Tom whispered in ear, whiskey riddling his breath, “I love him so very much.” He rubbed his nose in her hair, smelling her coconut shampoo. 

“Daddy, is that why everyone is mad?” Sybbie asked. 

“Yes.” Tom whispered, closing his eyes, “The family found out and they’re very mad at me. They think Thomas is sick… and fragile. They think I manipulated him into loving me, that it’s wrong for us to love. That I don’t love him. But he loves me and I love him with all my heart Sybbie… and one day that love will prevail.” 

 

He wanted to believe it so he forced himself to believe it. Even when it seemed impossible. Even when all hope was gone. 

“Thomas isn’t fragile.” Sybbie said. “Thomas is grumpy, like Uncle Kieran.” 

At first Tom just laughed, but the mention of Kieran’s name sparked another wave of longing inside of him. Suddenly he wanted to speak to his older brother. To hear his words of wisdom, and know what he might say in this dire moment. 

“You know what, you’ve made me think of an idea.” Tom told her, “I want to call Uncle Kieran tomorrow and tell him about all of this. Maybe he’ll have something important to say.” 

“Daddy…” Sybbie looked up at him, and like so often in her infancy she reached up to take his face in both her hands. His chin was covered in stubble and scratchy against her plump little fingers. She cupped his skin, carefully touching his bristled hairs. “I love you. Please don’t be sad.” 

In that moment Tom saw Sybil- beautiful wonderful Sybil who had been taken so cruelly and swiftly from him. Here she was again, urging him to be strong. To be kind. To be brave. To hide his tears from his daughter, Tom took Sybbie tight into his arms and hugged her against his chest. 

“I love you too, so very very much.” His voice strained. He took a moment to breath, to content himself with the knowledge that Sybbie would never be taken from him. Not while there was still a breath left in his body. It was so difficult to struggle with his desperate desire to stay with Sybbie and to stay with Thomas. No man should ever have to endure this. 

“And if you’re ever confused or concerned about me and Thomas being in love, you come right to me and I’ll help you. Okay?” He mumbled against her head. 

She nodded. 

“My good girl.” Tom whispered, closing his eyes again. He began to slowly rock her back and forth, “My lagan love… My turtle dove.” 

~*~

Thomas did not sleep that night. 

_My darling…_

He lay in bed, as the night crawled to a close, listening to the house around him. Mr. Carson came home and the couple had dinner. Thomas could hear murmured talk from beneath him, but could not make out the words. Then the Carson’s came upstairs, and Thomas heard both of them use the lavatory for the night. They bathed, brushed their teeth, changed their clothes and went to bed. Thomas heard Mrs. Hughes whispering a prayer before the final light in the house went out and they were plunged into darkness. 

_My darling…_

The moon steadily rose higher in the sky. Still Thomas did not sleep.   
He closed his eyes, he tossed and turned. At times it felt like he could not draw adequate breathe. At other times it felt like he was floating. But the whole time he could not sleep, seemingly past the point of normalcy on any level. 

_My darling, my darling, my darling…_

Slowly the moon began to descend back towards the horizon. The hours slipped by. Thomas grew more frustrated, more frightened. Why couldn’t he sleep? Why couldn’t he just fucking sleep? 

Dawn was encroaching.   
_My darling…_

As night slipped by into day, Thomas found himself without peace, without silence. The whispers were relentless, only seeming to grow stronger as he lay in a bed that was not his own. 

_Do it…_ the marbles whispered, _Useless faggot, disgusting lavender, child molester, whore, gunsel- do it. You’re nothing but trash._

Thomas screwed up his face at once point, as dawn broke over the edge. He pressed his hands to his ears, desperately trying to drown out the cruel and vicious jibes coming seemingly from all around. But it was fruitless- the whispers just chased him even his hands over his ears. 

He couldn’t sleep. He couldn’t close his eyes. He couldn’t make the whispers stop.   
What did that leave for him but to wait and die? 

Despite having gotten no sense of closure or rest during the night, Thomas found it hard to shift from bed when he heard Mrs. Hughes and Mr. Carson get up Wednesday morning. For a moment he focused entirely on listening to Mr. Carson walk about, dressing and humming to himself as Mrs. Hughes made him a cup of coffee. Eventually Thomas heard the front door shut, and the sounds of crunching gravel outside his window. He knew Mr. Carson was walking to the Abbey. That he would continue on as butler until he found a new more suitable replacement. Someone normal. Someone better. 

Slowly, aching as if having been beaten by a boxer, Thomas rose up from bed and plodded in his pajama trousers downstairs. He felt almost as if he was dreaming instead of waking. He stumbled to the first floor, unsure of what he might find waiting for him; he would have completely accepted a unicorn standing in the kitchen. Instead it was just Mrs. Hughes making breakfast in a cream colored blouse. 

“Good morning-“ She turned to give him a cheery smile, but when she saw him standing at the base of the stairs she instantly frowned and backed away from the stove to come to his aid. 

“My god, you look awful.” She declared, reaching up to place a hand over his brow. Her fingers felt incredibly hot, almost scalding. Thomas closed his eyes, wishing she could hold him all over- warm him up. “Thomas, are you well?” 

“…I… didn’t sleep.” Thomas admitted, “I can’t sleep.” He felt pathetic, saying it out loud. Like a child about to whimper to its mother for comfort. Like Mrs. Hughes could swaddle and rock him- or some other stupid dribble. 

 

“Do you want to lay back down?” She asked, calmly. Thomas still kept his eyes shut. 

Then, an ugly awful idea came to him.   
He opened his eyes, and stared blankly at Mrs. Hughes, “Do you have some pills I could take? Something to knock me down?”

He wondered if Mrs. Hughes could sense his plan, but assumed not as she led him up the stairs. Surely if she knew she wouldn’t be compliant. She’d say some nonsense like _‘life is worth living’_ even though Thomas could never be with the man he loved and had lost his security in life. They reached the top and Mrs. Hughes took them to the lavatory which was modest but equipped with a toilet, claw footed tub, sink, and medicine cabinet. Thomas plopped down on the rim of the tub, exhausted, as Mrs. Hughes began to rifle through her medicine cabinet for something to put him to sleep. 

“Hmm.” She pondered to herself, going through bottle after bottle- pain relievers and creams for rashes, “You know, I don’t have anything- but I was going to run to the village anyway. Are you comfortable staying home while I go out?” 

Thomas nodded, dumbly. 

“Why don’t you take a bath and get back into bed.” Mrs. Hughes offered. “Does that sound good to you?” 

But the mention of the bathtub brought Thomas to mind of another adventure he’d taken back in June. Of razors surely in Mr. Carson’s dresser, and security with Mrs. Hughes gone to the village. He decided on the spot that he would take his life when she left. That he’d pretend to be compliant and then do the deed. 

“I’ll be back in about an hour.” She told him, touching his forehead one last time. “I’ll make you some tea before I go.” 

She went downstairs, and Thomas sat quietly on the rim of the tub. He did not make to start the water. He did not even put the stopper in the drain. Instead he sat and stared at the medicine cabinet, still slightly ajar, and wondered at all the brown glass vials. 

Mrs. Hughes re appeared, a cup of tea in hand, and blanched as she saw Thomas hadn’t even made to start with his bath. 

“… Thomas, are you sure you’re alright?” She asked, slightly more stern than before. 

“Just a little off color.” He mumbled. 

Mrs. Hughes sat his teacup down and started the tub, frigid water gushing from the tap only to slowly turn steaming hot. She put the rubber stopper in the drain and turned the cold tap to keep the water from being scalding. The sound of rushing water soothed Thomas, though he couldn’t exactly say why. It seemed to drown out his marbles.

“I’ll let you do the rest.” She said. straightening back up and rolling down the cream sleeves of her blouse. “Try to relax, I’ll be back.” 

She left without another word, closing the door to the lavatory as she went. For a moment Thomas simply sat on the rim and stared at the tap gushing water, wondering when it would be best to turn it off. Wondering why it mattered. 

He looked back at the teacup as he heard Mrs. Hughes leave the house, the ancient front door loud against the resounding wood when it closed. She always made it just like he liked- with lemon and honey. Why, when she could have just offered it to him plain? 

Something dark caught Thomas’ eye, he turned back around, and jumped on the rim of the tub. 

The faucet was gushing blood. 

Dark crimson spilled into the tub, swirling till the water was an ugly maroon, totally blocking out the ceramic basin beneath. Thomas backed up, slipping away from the tub to clasp his hands tightly over his mouth to keep from screaming. 

How was this possible- how?! 

Panicked, wanting the ugly vision to stop, Thomas ran to the tub and quickly turned off the faucet, reaching deep into the bloody basin to find the stopper chain and pull it free. The tub began to drain, crimson slipping away though it left a horrific ring of bright red around the tub. 

But now blood covered his hands, and that frightened Thomas even more. 

He stumbled over to the sink, accidentally knocking off Mrs. Hughes offered cup of tea. It fell to the floor and shattered, porcelain cracking to spill hot chamomile all over the wooden floor. Too frightened by the blood on his hands to spare it much thought, Thomas turned on the sink taps and scrubbed feverishly at his hands till the blood was washed away, leaving only his skin just as it had been before. His heart still pounded wildly in his chest as he took one steadying breath after another. 

Jesus christ that had been terrifying. What the fuck was that? 

Now he felt horribly guilty for breaking Mrs. Hughes teacup and stooped over to pick up the shards. He would have to get a rag to mop up the tea. He straightened up, careful with how he held the sharp porcelain in his hands- 

And screamed. Loudly. 

Thomas dropped the shards again, backing up wildly till he hit the wall to over his eyes with his hands. 

It hadn’t been real- it had only been a hallucination- 

“What are you waiting for?” Her cold voice rang out crystal clear in the horrifying silence. Thomas began to snivel instinctively, not wanting to open his eyes, “An invitation to do right? Pathetic.” 

Thomas cowered in the corner of the bathroom, hands pressed so tight over his eyes that it almost hurt. 

“Thomas, do you hear me?” 

“You’re not real, you’re not real-“ Thomas whispered feverishly to himself, pressing his face into the wall behind him, “You’re not real, you can’t be real-“ 

“THOMAS NATHANIEL BARROW!” 

Thomas jumped, petrified.   
His mother’s voice was cold and cruel in his ears, scalding him without ever having to touch. 

“You turn around and look at me this instant young man.” 

How could he disobey an order from his mother?   
Slowly, Thomas began to stagger and turn around, sniveling as he parted trembling fingers. 

His mother sat in the bath, relaxing against the spine of the tub as if she were bathing. Her clothes were soaked- navy blue dress and lace collar clinging to her skin from where water had dampened them beyond repair. Her skin was pale- too pale- bone white and stretched across her high cheekbones and sharp pointed chin. Her icy blue eyes were hidden, milked over so that nothing but white could be shown. A corpse, a zombie. 

Thomas had never been more afraid in his life, not even when Jimmy had threatened to call the police if he were to be given a reference. 

Hyperventilating, Thomas pressed himself tight against the wall, shivering and shaking. His mother’s coal black hair was unbound from its once tight bun, spilling over her shoulders and forehead like ink. 

She glared at him, bony hands clutching the rim of the tub in an iron like grip. 

“Get it over with.” She spat in a commanding tone. “Get it over with you little wretch. Do you hear what I said?” 

Thomas could not answer, too terrified to speak. He shook his head, numbly. 

“I said get it over with!” His mother was getting angrier and angrier. “You stupid creature, how slow can you be-?” 

Thomas couldn’t move, fear had paralyzed him to the spot. 

“I should have strangled you in your cot.” she hissed with loathing. “You foul loathsome evil little worm-“ 

When he did not make to move or do as she say, his mother became irate. In a sudden move, she rose from the tub, water and blood dripping in heavy streams from her navy dress and bony arms. Her black hair seemed to levitate away from her body, swimming and spilling in the air as if forced up by the presence of how evil she was. Her waxen skin and milky eyes just completed the image, made her look like a banshee-! 

“THOMAS-!” She howled his name, shrieking it like a curse in the air. “SHAME OF MY FLESH!” 

She made to come after him, crawling out of the tub leg by leg. It was only then that Thomas could see her legs were incredibly deformed, broken and bloody with shards of bone sticking out of purpled skin. 

Thomas screamed, and ran from the room. 

He tore out of the bathroom, running as fast as he could for the first door he saw- the Carson’s bedroom-! His mother had fallen to the floor and was crawling across the floor like some kind of demonic snake, hissing and spitting as her fingernails scratched at the wood beneath her. 

Thomas slammed the door to the Carson’s bedroom, locking it with the only feeble clasp it boasted. He fled to each corner of the room, desperate for some place to hide-! The wardrobe was too full of clothes- there wasn’t a walk in closet-! 

The only place left was underneath the bed, and Thomas dove for it.   
He scrambled for cover in the darkness, pressing himself deep against the wood of the dusty floor, hiding as the lace bedskirt kept him from view. He heard pounding on the door and clapped his hands over his ears, desperate not to cry or make a sound. 

Thomas heard the vibration in the wood beneath him- slam, slam, slam-! 

The lock dropped with a ping to the floor and the door opened. 

Thomas’ fingers about his mouth were like iron, nails digging into his skin till blood appeared. He held tight to his hiding spot, even as beyond the lace bed spread he saw his mother’s deformed and bruised feet stumbled left and right. She couldn’t walk in a straight line, staggering back and forth with sickening crunching noises as she looked for her wayward son. 

“Thomas…” She said his name in an ominously sickening sweet tone. “Thomas, are you hiding from me?” 

Thomas’ fingers trembled about his mouth, his eyes dilated till black nearly swallowed blue in his fear. He watched his mother walk around the perimeter of the bed, watched her go first to the wardrobe and then to the bureau, finally back to the door. 

“Thomas….” she said again, the final ’s’ of his name slithering from her lips as she left the Carson’s bedroom. Thomas watched her walk away, watched her take a right turn and seemingly continue down the hallway to the stairs. Crunch, crunch, crunch- the soft padding of her feet overridden by the horrific sound of bone scraping against bone. 

 

Thomas waited till finally silence took over again. 

~*~

When Elsie returned home from the village, she did so with a pep in her step. Underneath her arm in her wicker basket, she carried several things she’d been meaning to get for a few days now; seeds for her garden, butter and spices for her kitchen, goats soap, apples, more tea, and some sleeping pills for Thomas who sorely needed them. Best of all (and unknown to her little guest) she’d gotten a sketchpad with three brand new pencils. She felt mighty pleased with herself, imagining the shocked look on Thomas’ face when he realized that in her house there would be no need for fear or tears. That he could draw anything he pleased, and wouldn’t be struck. 

She opened the front door wide, locking it again behind her to deposit her things on the kitchen table. Thomas would no doubt be done with his bath by now, probably either asleep in the tub or trying to find purchase in his bed, god bless him. As she put away her apples, spices, butter, and soaps, Elsie thought of how this time last year the thought of seeing Thomas naked would have been unimaginable. Now she’d gone and done it twice. 

It really hadn’t been all that much of a shock, particularly after being wed to Charles and knowing him intimately on their wedding night. At first she’d imagined that Thomas might look somehow different or deformed beneath his clothes, that it might be obvious to the naked eye he was a man of a perplexing nature. Instead, when she’d been forced to strip away Thomas’ sodden and bloodied clothes, she’d found him quite normal- similar to Charles even. 

There were some obvious differences of course; Thomas was much more thin than Charles and had boney hips paired with a slender waist. His shoulders were more slanted, his arms and legs less muscled. 

As for things that unmarried women shouldn’t see, she’d tried her hardest not to look but had found it almost impossible to do. For fifteen years she’d quarreled and quipped that boy, forcing him to behave as a man ought to- now faced with the reality that Thomas was indeed a man, Elsie had forced herself to either stare at his knees or at his hips, refusing to look at what lay between. 

Once, laying in bed with Charles and staring up at the ceiling, Elsie’s muddled brain had slipped the fact that Thomas was not the same shape as Charles but she _absolutely refused to let the thought go farther than that thank you very much._

Heading upstairs, sleeping pills in hand, Elsie walked all the way to the lavatory door finding it closed. She knocked hesitantly, then upon hearing no answer poked her head inside to see that the tub was empty. Oddly enough, it didn’t seem like towels had been used- 

Her eyes paused, drifting onto the sink basin where shards of porcelain sat.   
Elsie slowly walked over to the sink, setting the sleeping pills down on the rim as she reached in with hesitant fingers to pluck up the shards of the teacup she’d given Thomas before leaving. 

There was a puddle of tea on the floor. Had he spilt it by accident? But why hadn’t he cleaned it up, or used a towel when he’d gotten out of the bath-? 

Really, boys were such a mess. 

“… Thomas?” Elsie called out, walking down the hallway to Thomas’ impromptu room. She opened the door, expecting to find him soaking and shriveled in bed snoring at the ceiling. Instead she found nothing, save for a bed that looked like it had been slept on top of instead of inside. But that didn’t make any sense… where was Thomas? 

Slightly alarmed, Elsie pulled back, growing absolutely still and as she focused on the atmosphere of her quaint country home. Something didn’t feel right. 

She looked over her shoulder, back up the hallway, and noticed that the door to her bedroom was ever so slightly ajar. 

She’d closed it when she’d left. 

Wary, careful not to make much noise, Elsie slowly walked back up the hall till she was at her bedroom door and gingerly pushed it ajar. Her bed was neatly made up just as before- indeed nothing seemed to be touched. Had Thomas been in the room? 

But a soft sniveling noise caught her attention and picked up the pace of her heartbeat as she carefully opened the door wider to view, on the other side of her bed, a figured huddled in the corner in blood soaked pajamas. 

Her heart sank into the pit of her stomach: it was Thomas. 

“ … Oh Lamb.” Elsie whispered, walking gingerly around the foot of her bed and her mother’s ancient trunk to find Thomas pinned tight to the wall, arms clutched to his chest and head buried in his hands. He was rocking on the balls of his feet, knees drawn up to his chest as if to keep away some kind of vicious predator. He did not seem to be aware of her presence. He did not seem to be aware of anything- and worst of all the arms of his pajamas were torn and shucked, hanging in tatters while blood dripped slowly down bone white flesh. What had he done? What on earth had happened? 

Carefully, Elsie dropped to her knees so that they were eye level, and gingerly placed her hands upon Thomas’ knees. He was shaking like a little lamb without fleece. 

“I’m sorry…”He whimpered pathetically, too ashamed of his actions to look up and meet her eye, “I’m so sorry.” He began to cry pathetically into his hands. Elsie spotted a shaving razor clutched between the ring and middle finger of his left hand, liable to slip and fall as he blubbered on, “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I don’t know- I’m sorry- I’m so sorry-“ 

Sympathy washed over Elsie as she realized this poor creature must have suffered some sort of nervous breakdown after his horrible week and a night without sleep. A sting of guilt bit at her chest as she reasoned she shouldn’t have left him alone. No wonder he’d wanted sleeping pills- he’d probably been ready to swallow the whole bottle the minute her back was turned! 

 

“Let me see.” Elsie whispered, reaching up to his wrists to begin to tug them away from his chest and face, “Let me see-“ Thomas was hesitant at first, frightened, but Elsie had raised six of her siblings including Becky (who had never been right in the head) and knew how to handle a reluctant child. Inch by inch Thomas gave over till Elsie could finally bear witness to his arms which were now riddled with four or five dark slashes to each limb. They were not as deep as the first cuts back in June last year, but they were harsh and jagged, bleeding profusely so that Thomas’ arms were soaked in his own blood. 

The poor creature- what pain he must be in! 

“Oh Thomas…” She whispered his name consolingly as she held his damaged forearms in her hands, “Oh Thomas…” 

“I saw- my mother-“ Thomas stuttered out, petrified. Now able to view his face, Elsie was shocked to find him wide eyed and petrified. It was as if a ghost had jumped from the closet and frightened him out of his skin. “I saw my mother. She got mad at me. I saw my mother.” 

Elsie scooted in closer till her own back was pressed against the wall, carefully taking Thomas into her arms so that she could hold him around the shoulders and pet his head. Her fingers were sticky from his blood. 

“Shh.” She whispered softly, her mind racing with details. She had to phone Dr. Clarkson, and Charles. His Lordship needed to know this had occurred. Surely this was proof of how disastrous Thomas’ affair with Tom Branson was? 

“I’m so sorry-“ Thomas blubbered on, quite sincere in his groveling. His face was now pressed to her breast, his tears soaking her blouse, “It’s all my fault. It’s all my fault with Tom, and Lord Grantham-“ 

“Sh…” She patted his shoulders, rubbing them. The muscles were so tense and tight! “Not at all. Not at all. You’re confused, you’re tired, you didn’t understand… Mr. Branson was having a game and you didn’t know how to play along without losing.” 

She realized what a poor light it painted on the man but right now she couldn’t be pressed to care. It just didn’t seem right to her. Like before with James- Thomas had fallen in love with the wrong man and paid a horrible price. 

“He loves me.” Thomas whimpered to her breasts. 

“I don’t think he does.” She admitted, bitter to have to say it aloud when it caused Thomas to weep even harder, “I’m so sorry, Thomas. But I don’t think he does.” 

“My arms hurt.” He blubbered, causing another stab of pity to rake at her sensitive heart, “Don’t tell me mum, please-“ 

“I know. I know…” She patted him lovingly, stroking his damp hair. “Shh.”   
Thomas sniveled, a child in her arms. 

 

Like all children, Thomas was easy to lead about as soon as he was emotionally settled. It took Elsie a moment to calm him down to the point of compliancy but when she had she managed to get him up onto his feet and out of her bedroom to stagger across the hall and into his own bed. His pajamas were soiled and ruined, but Thomas now had a valise from the abbey and could redress in another pair. Mindful to give him decency, Elsie helped him to undress and promptly threw his now ruined pajama shirt into the waste bin. He remained topless, his arms horrifically scarred as Elsie wrapped them in dirty shirtsleeves to keep them from staining the bedsheets. She tucked Thomas into bed, and promptly called Dr. Clarkson having to say no more than “He’s done it again” for Clarkson to get the gist. Over he came to the Carson’s cottage, doctor’s bag in hand as he tromped up the stairs and carefully began to stitch Thomas’ arms back together again. Through it all, Elsie sat at Thomas’ headboard, arms about his shoulders to lend him her much needed support as Dr. Clarkson washed and stitched his wounds. Thomas didn’t do much but wince, eyes closed as tear after tear slipped down his cheeks. Elsie continuously chased them with a handkerchief. 

“Well, the good news is that you won’t need sutures.” Dr. Clarkson said as he stitched the last cut closed, snipping the thread tight to the skin and beginning to wrap Thomas’ arms in clean gauze. His bandages now went from his cuffs to his elbows, a prominent solid wall of white. Thomas couldn’t even so much as look at the doctor, hiccups betraying his growing distress. 

Elsie just couldn’t get the thought of Thomas’ mother out of her mind; Thomas had proclaimed to see her which was hard to imagine since the poor woman had been dead nearly twenty years. 

“Why don’t you tell Dr. Clarkson what you told me?” Elsie urged, “About your mother?” 

Thomas shook his head ashamed. Dr. Clarkson looked up, confused. 

“What’s this?” Dr. Clarkson asked, tucking the last thread of gauze beneath the rest of the wrap so as to make the bandage tight. “Your mother called? Is that what prompted you to do this; did she say something to you on the telephone?” 

But Thomas was started to twitch, the muscle in his left eye jumping as sweat trickled from his brow. He was as white as a sheet, an alarming diagnosis for a young man who was already on the pale side, and was breathing rapidly. Far too rapidly- like was drowning and trying to save himself from lack of air. 

Dr. Clarkson watched all of this occur with knowing eyes, squinting as Thomas just kept heaving breath after breath, almost haggard. 

“Thomas how old are you?” Dr. Clarkson asked, but when Thomas failed to answer Elsie offered, “Thirty f-“ 

But then Dr. Clarkson cut her off with a sharp look, clearly having only wanted Thomas to answer the question. But why? 

Thomas was stuttering, trying to speak but failing. Dr. Clarkson took his pen out of his breast pocket, opening up Thomas’ sweating palms and putting the pen in his slackened grip to see if it would stay. 

“Hold this pen for me.” Dr. Clarkson asked, “Try to clutch it in your hand, there’s a lad.” 

But Thomas couldn’t clutch his fingers, and the pen fell to the coverlet. 

“What’s happening?” Elsie demanded, suddenly fearing brain damage like Becky. 

“He’s hyperventilating.” Dr. Clarkson said, abandoning his pen game to instead look to his bag. He rifled through the contents, pulling out an odd glass vial which he suddenly wrapped in a thick white cloth till it was totally concealed. Before Elsie could ask what he was doing, Dr. Clarkson reached around and smacked the vial, clothe and all, against the wooden footboard of the guest bed. A sound _crunch_ signaled the glass shattering, and Dr. Clarkson began to rub and squeeze the cloth methodically as if to absorb the glass. He brought it back around to Thomas, reaching up to try and put the cloth over Thomas’ nose. 

Thomas jumped, nearly banging his head against the headboard had Elsie not stopped him. 

“Talk softly to him, calm him down-“ Dr. Clarkson advised, “You know him best.” 

“It’s going to be alright.” She murmured soothingly in his ear, black hairs tickling the tip of her nose. Dr. Clarkson used the momentary lull to place the white cloth directly over Thomas’ nose so that he had no choice but to breath it in, “Everything’s going to be alright.” 

“Purse your lips, breath through your nose slowly- slowly!” He added again, for Thomas was still stuttering, eyelids fluttering as he began to droop against Elsie’s arms. Whatever was in that vial and on that cloth was turning him as slack and slippery as a well boiled noodle. 

“That’s it… there we go… that’s better.” Dr. Clarkson had a charming bedside manor. Thomas breathing began to slow, his chin drooping to his chest so that Elsie had to carefully cup his forehead to ensure he didn’t slump right over. Thomas was drenched in a cold sweat. 

“Mrs. Hughes could you hold this to his mouth and nose.” Dr. Clarkson asked; Elsie reached about, taking over Dr. Clarkson’s grip so that he could wipe his hands and rise from the bed. “I’m going to make a phone call.” 

“His Lordship?” Elsie asked as he walked to the door. 

“Dr. Kinsey.” Dr. Clarkson corrected her. Such a smart man, why hadn’t she thought of that? 

But as Dr. Clarkson slipped away, Thomas shifted upon the bed, mumbling and rolling to sag in Elsie’s embrace. 

“Tom…” Thomas mumbled from beneath the rag, “I want… Tom…” 

“Shh.” She rubbed his shoulders with her one free hand; she could feel each breath he took with the other. “You keep breathing slowly. Deep breathes.” 

“Tom…” He just kept pleading, “Tom…” 

“Hush now.” She wouldn’t hear for such nonsense. He’d already been upset enough for the day, “That silly boy isn’t worth your tears.” 

~*~

Completely oblivious to the ongoing horrors of the Carson’s cottage, Tom Branson sat with his spine pressed uncomfortably against the front door of the abbey, smoking on the stoop. He’d never been one for cigarettes before, save for when he’d been working as a journalist in Dublin and constantly churning out stories to fund his homely flat with Sybil. Now, he was smoking again but for a completely different reason. Bitter, trapped, confused, and alone Tom felt like he was fighting a war by himself equipped only with a slingshot. Try as he might, he could not see a way out that satisfied everyone’s needs. If he left the house, he would lose Sybbie- absolutely out of the question. If he stayed her, he lost Thomas… once again, out of the question. 

Unable to find relief, Tom had no other choice but to sit at the doorstep and stare out in the direction of the Carson’s cottage. He kept seeing shifts- tree limbs swaying or cars passing by, and he wondered if they were Thomas. Like the man might just pop out of the ground as a daisy did, and take into bloom where adversity prowled. 

But Thomas did not appear and Tom continued to smoke. 

Inside, Carson was milling about the main hall, directing Andy and the lone footman to do whatever task was on the slate. When the phone rang in the entrance hall, it was Carson who answered. Andy passed by, clearly looking for something to do. Tom looked warily over his shoulder, noting Carson passing Andy Tia’s leather leash. 

“Walk Tiaa.” Carson commanded. So apparently Tom wasn’t even allowed to walk the dog anymore. 

Tiaa bounded out the stoop as Andy passed with the leash. Andy didn’t look too enthused about the whole ordeal, his arm yanked at the socket as Tiaa yearned to run to her full pleasure. Really Andy could just drop the leash, it wasn’t like the dog was going to go anywhere. 

For long. 

“Downton Abbey,” Mr. Carson answered the phone with as much pomp and circumstance as a graduation reception for Oxford, “This is Mr. Carson the butl-“ but he cut off, listening to the other end intently. 

“…Has something happened?” Mr. Carson asked, all the pomp gone from his voice. Clearly it was someone he knew. 

Tom looked lazily over his shoulder, watching as Mr. Carson grew more gray and nervous by the second. Had something happened with a friend? God forbid with Mrs. Hughes? 

Mr. Carson’s eyes lowered, fixing on Tom from where he sat at the stoop. He was almost glaring at him, and Tom stiffened, cigarette burning to ash between his fingers. He wondered if Carson had glared at Thomas this way; no wonder Thomas had been so vicious in the early years. He’d been fighting tooth and nail just to be treated like a normal human being. 

“I quite agree.” Mr. Carson said to whomever was on the other end of the phone. “Keep me informed.” 

Tom arched an eyebrow, turning back to look out once more over the lawn. If Carson wanted to glare at him he could do so till his eyebrows caught on fire. Fuck it. Tom didn’t give a good god damn anymore. 

“Very good- when can we expect him?” Tom barely heard Carson’s voice anymore. It was just white noise in the background, “I will tell the others.” 

But then a soft, tentative, “Yes?” followed by a “I’ll be home early tonight… I love you too.” 

Tom blanched, looking back around. Carson had hung up the phone with an ugly look on his face, like being caught saying ‘I love you’ was a crime and he didn’t want to be found guilty. Clearly he’d been talking to Mrs. Hughes. But then, what had occurred to so rattle her and ask for Mr. Carson? 

Mr. Carson didn’t linger to chat with Tom, turning away and marching for the library door on the far end of the main hall. Left alone again, Tom turned to look out at Andy who was now chasing Tiaa across the lawn. Clearly she’d gotten away from her leash. What the boy didn’t seem to understand was that Tiaa was running directly because Andy was running. If Andy just stopped and sat down on the grass, Tiaa would come right back to him. Honestly this was all nonsense. 

Tom finished his cigarette and picked up the heel of his leather shoe to stub the end of his cigarette against his sole. He breathed out one final column of smoke into the frigid February air and wondered at the world around him. Liverpool was out… so what now? Where could he find shelter and safety without losing his daughter? 

The thought of losing Sybbie was like losing Thomas; it made his blood go cold. 

Footsteps were coming across the main hall floor. Tom didn’t bother to look over his shoulder this time, much too entertained by the image of Andy being drug about by Tiaa. She’d managed to circle his ankles and her leash and gone tight; the result was that Andy had tripped and fallen to the ground. He struggled in vain to free himself from his leash prison, all the while with Tiaa feverishly licking his face. Tom smirked, allowing himself to relax— 

“Well I hope you’re happy with yourself.”   
Robert’s cold voice caught Tom’s attention at once. Tom looked around, irritated to find that the Earl was right behind him with Carson at his shoulder. 

He stood up, eyes narrowed. “Come for another row?” He demanded, “Can’t you even wait twenty four hours-“ 

“Mrs. Hughes just called the house.” Robert looked quite angry in that cold and English way. It was almost sterile, without feeling compared to the way Kieran would curse and howl if he so much as stubbed his toe on a sharp corner. “Thomas has attempted suicide again, and I should wonder why when-“ 

Tom had not heard correctly, so he asked for the statement again, “I didn’t- what-?” 

“You heard what I said.” Robert snapped. But Tom couldn’t possibly have- there was no way- 

“No-“ Tom snapped, growing quite angry, “No, that can’t be right.” 

But the more Tom said it allowed, the more he said ‘no’, the more his muddled and panicked brain began to realize what each individual word of Robert’s statement meant. 

Thomas had attempted suicide again.   
Which mean’t he’d- 

“He cut his wrists.” Carson admittedly quite bitter, “With my razor.” 

Vivid, bloody images swam to the surface of Tom’s panicked mind. Of Thomas laying on a cold and unforgiving wooden floor- the light draining from his beautiful blue eyes as his blood soaked into the… into the… 

“Oh god-“ Tom stuttered, teeth chattering in a sudden unforeseen cold. He panicked, turning to door and the grounds that lay beyond. He’d have to run now- god only knows how much time had been wasted-! 

But even as he tried to run, bolting for the door, he was caught about the waist by Mr. Carson who held him tight in an iron grip. Tom struggled for all he was worth, fighting to get free. Thomas needed him-! He would surely die if left alone now! 

“Let me go!” Tom shouted wildly, “Let me go! Let me go to him!” 

“Enough, sir!” Carson commanded, dragging him back from the door. 

“You have done enough.” Robert tried to reason, but Tom was passed being reasoned with. Thomas was bleeding to death somewhere, dying- and here Carson was dragging him way from the one door that could lead him out! 

“This is all your fault!” Tom howled at Robert, anguish twisting his features till he looked more demonic than human. Robert grimaced, Tom’s words clearly stirring something within him though it was difficult to say what. 

The misery within Tom just spiraled higher and higher as he thought of Thomas- beautiful Thomas. 

Thomas kissing him in the snow of a garage, his lips as cool and lovely as the ice that surrounded them but so different- so so different. 

Thomas curled up with him at the corner of the Näive bar, toasting him with a frosted glass. So cool and sweet just like his touch- 

Thomas beneath him, tossing and turning against sweat soaked sheets- his inner channel gripping his cock like a vice. Whimpering, moaning, fueling Tom’s arousal with his beautiful demure demeanor. 

So sweet, so true, so pure of second intentions. When Thomas loved he loved completely. When Thomas hated he hated to the core… and when he purged, he broke his own spine to right wrongs long gone. 

Tom should have been there at his side, should have protected him from himself in the aftermath of Tuesday’s argument. He should have been able to console Thomas, and help him understand that none of this was his fault. 

But Robert couldn’t see it that way, because Robert was too angry at the idea of buggery happening on the gallery floor to recognize the grave error of the bigger picture. 

“I find it tasteless and crass of you to throw blame in this ugly situation.” Robert would spare him no sympathy in that moment, eyes as hardened as steel as Carson kept Tom from bolting out the door, “If you hadn’t started this nonsense I wouldn’t have been forced to cast him out. I took no pleasure in doing so!” 

“No, why would you!?” Pleasure? Was that even a word in the English language, “Pleasure’s a sin to your lot! Pleasure and love and anything out of the ordinary-“ 

“Be silent sir!” Robert was outraged. 

“I’ll never be silent again!” Tom broke free of Mr. Carson’s hold at last, but as he fell to the ground on buckling knees, Carson blocked the way to the door. There was no way around the man. No way to get to the door and beyond without harming himself or Mr. Carson. 

“Let me pass.” Tom begged. “Let me go to him, let me help him. Let me save him!” 

“And how do you propose to save him?” Robert demanded. He wanted details, a plan Tom could not give off the top of his head. Not when he didn’t even know how to protect Sybbie or keep peace in the house- 

“I…” Tom realized how futile it was. How powerless he’d become, “I… God.” He backed up, collapsing against the banister of the grand staircase. 

“What have you done?” Tom said, his eyes stinging with unshed tears. He could not allow them to fall, not in front of the two men who would pity him the least. “Oh Thomas- god I’m sorry- I’m so sorry Thomas, God…!” 

But Thomas couldn’t hear him. Thomas might already be dead. 

He clapped a hand over his mouth to keep from saying anything more. Bidden silently by Robert, Carson closed the front door with a soft but ominous click to the latch. 

~*~

When the next knock came at the Carson’s cottage, it was a doctor that both called and answered. 

By now, Thomas was heavily medicated and dozing in his bed upstairs. Mrs. Hughes sat with him, monitoring his condition as he recovered from the morning shock. Dr. Kinsey, upon being called by Dr. Clarkson, had come on an emergency status via the first train out of London. It had left at twelve and docked at three in the afternoon, so that at 3:30 in the afternoon a calm quiet man in a brown suit with a brown trilby hat came walking up the front step as if he’d been expected from the start. 

Dr. Clarkson opened the door wide, finding Dr. Kinsey wearing a calm placid smile much like he had the day he’d graduated medical school; Dr. Clarkson had been there in support of him, a fan of his psychology papers and eager to know more about the young man who’d been so captivated by Freud. The “professor extraordinarius” had been at the graduation as well, in support with the London Psychoanalytic Society as they welcomed new men into their throng… including Robert Kinsey. Freud had only been visiting, bound back for Vienna eventually; his presence had been quite a sensation. 

Some men might have allowed that visit to go to their head, but not Kinsey. He’d merely smiled and shaken Dr. Freud’s hand before accepting an award, a medal, and a pin for his lapel. 

“Beautiful weather.” Dr. Kinsey said by way of ‘how do you do’. Dr. Clarkson gave him a short sharp smile, allowing Dr. Kinsey to step inside. 

Kinsey took off his hat and coat, hanging both on a rack inside as Clarkson closed the door. “Did you have rain Saturday?” 

“We nearly had a flood,” Mrs. Hughes answered as she came down the stairs. They shook hands (Kinsey had always been formal even when not strictly required), and Kinsey turned to shake Clarkson’s hand as well. 

“Richard.” Was the only indication Dr. Kinsey gave to their frequent correspondence and close friendship. “Where is he?” 

“Upstairs sleeping.” Dr. Clarkson answered, beckoning Kinsey to follow as they made a bee line for the stairs, “We need to speak in private.” 

“I’ll put on tea.” Mrs. Hughes offered, which was greatly appreciated despite the growing hour. She busied herself in the kitchen, putting together a tray as Dr. Clarkson lead the way up the stairs with Dr. Kinsey close behind. 

“He cut his wrists again.” Dr. Clarkson explained, much as he had over the phone that morning, “slightly higher up than before, almost to the elbow. Admittedly I would have called you before that but… he mentioned something very odd when I was dressing his wounds.” 

They reached Thomas’ door at the far end of the upstairs hall, closed and innocent looking to what lay beyond it. 

“His favorite Christmas dish?” Dr. Kinsey teased with a small smile. 

“He insisted his mother harassed him into attempting suicide. That she’d told him to do it- commanded him, rather. There’s just one small problem.” 

“Yes?” Dr. Kinsey asked calmly. 

“His mother is dead.” 

The man gave no outward notification of alarm or confusion, merely nodding as he reached for the doorknob of Thomas’ room. 

“A slight communication barrier.” Dr. Kinsey said. 

“Indeed.” Dr. Clarkson muttered, staying out in the hall. Whatever would happen next would have to stay between Thomas and Dr. Kinsey. As a fellow doctor, Clarkson did not feel comfortable listening in on a therapy session. 

 

 

Thomas had gone through a myriad of emotions after being found by Mrs. Hughes. Terror, confusion, drowsiness, mourning… now he just felt numb and empty as he sat cradling his medicated rag in his lap. 

He ought to feel upset, surely at the least… but he just felt… odd. Very very odd. 

The door opened, and Dr. Kinsey was revealed on the stoop, wearing his brown vest and carrying his leather briefcase. Thomas wasn’t surprised he was here; Dr. Kinsey had probably been called to take him away to Briarcliffe. 

“Hello, Thomas.” Dr. Kinsey said with a calm smile, closing the door behind him.   
Thomas sniffed, looking away from Dr. Kinsey and out his lone window to the front yard that lay beyond. The sun was starting its slow sink into the west, though it would be set for several more hours. 

“Well, this is it.” Thomas whispered as Dr. Kinsey sat down in Mrs. Hughes abandoned chair. He wondered where she’d gone- if she’d told Mr. Carson yet that he’d done a bunk. “I’m cracked.” 

“Why are you cracked?” Dr. Kinsey wondered. 

“Didn’t they tell you what I said?” Thomas felt a right fool for having spilt his soul to Mrs. Hughes— he should never have told her about seeing the apparition of his dead mother. Even in his traumatized state, Thomas had known how insane it had sounded. 

“Mm-“ Dr. Kinsey shrugged calmly, opening his leather case to cross his leg over his knee as an impromptu desk. Out came his old paper and pen, “I’d rather hear what you have to say.” 

Oh, sure he did. Everyone liked to go to the fair and play in the fun house. 

Thomas didn’t know what to say, where to begin. Part of him wanted to tell Dr. Kinsey everything, out of the trust he held for the man. The fact of the matter was, he was petrified of seeing his mother in that demonic form again. Thomas kept hearing the noise of her bones cracking, of her nails catching at the wooden floor. He’d cut his wrists to do as she bade- anything to stave her off or make her go away. Instinctively, he knew that Dr. Kinsey needed to know these things. That Dr. Kinsey would be concerned and problem want to put it in his file. But at the same time to admit it out loud would damn Thomas to Briarcliffe or some other mad house. Once again the fear of being comforted was battling with the need to be comforted. 

Which would win? 

Thomas’ internal struggle was interrupted by Mrs. Hughes, who entered the room with her back first, bearing a wooden tray full of tea bits. Three steaming cups, a bowl of milk and sugar, a little plate of biscuits with strawberry jam fresh from Mr. Mason’s farm. She sat it at the foot of Thomas’ bed, revealing that only two of the tea cups were for use. The third had a little lemon wedge floating in the top of it and honey surely inside. 

Thomas’ expression crumpled at the sight of that little lemon wedge. He looked away, back out the window only to see a robin fly past with twigs in its mouth. 

The birds were returning. The snow would be gone soon. 

“Thank you.” Dr. Kinsey accepted a cup of tea- Thomas’ heard the porcelain clinking. 

“Milk? Sugar?” 

“Just some milk, please-“ He paused to take a sip, “Mm, that’s nectar.” 

The bed dipped and Mrs. Hughes perched herself next to Thomas. She sat both their teacups on his bedside table, next to a fresh roll of gauze Dr. Clarkson had left for later. 

“Dr. Clarkson’s gone back to the hospital to write a report.” Mrs. Hughes said. “He asked you to call him before you left.” 

“So I shall.” Dr. Kinsey said with a smile, but his voice was growing slightly sharp at the edges. 

“… She can stay.” Thomas mumbled, sensing it probably had to be said. Dr. Kinsey shifted on his chair, the wood creaking. 

“You’ll sign your name to that?” Dr. Kinsey asked. Thomas nodded, still not looking at the man. 

There was a soft sigh, and a rustling of paper. After a moment of silence, Dr. Kinsey withdrew a completely new sheet from his briefcase to pass the entire lot over to Mrs. Hughes. Perturbed, she took her reading glasses from her pocket to examine the contents of the legal document before her. 

“What is this exactly?” She wondered, scanning it hesitantly. The print was very fine, almost like a bible. 

“A Guardian Act.” Dr. Kinsey explained, “By signing it, you agree to be witness to Thomas’ medical history. It basics, you become his emergency contact-“ 

“Oh well-“ Mrs. Hughes took his pen to sign it at once with a scribble, “If that’s all it is-“ 

She was incredibly trusting, Thomas would never sign his name to something unless he’d read it all the way through. But suddenly he became a hypocrite, for Mrs. Hughes passed him the briefcase turned writing desk and document; Thomas suddenly found he was too exhausted to read the whole thing. The pen was clumsy in his hands, he could not grip it smoothly. He merely scribbled a small, pathetic version of his usual Hancock. It would have to do for now. Mrs. Hughes took the entire lot back, allowing Dr. Kinsey to have it at last. He folded it up, putting it inside a manilla envelope Thomas had not known to exist. 

He wondered what else was in Dr. Kinsey’s briefcase. 

“I was the one who found Thomas today.” Mrs. Hughes said when Thomas did not deign to speak, “He’s been acting off color for a day or two-“ 

“Off how?” Dr. Kinsey asked, curious. 

“Quieter than usual, pale, clammy, numb… Very numb, the poor thing.” Mrs. Hughes said, her voice growing solemn. 

“Hmm.” Dr. Kinsey wrote carefully, his script small. Thomas couldn’t make out what he was writing, and instead stared out the window again to keep from the temptation of looking. It felt incredibly rude, “What prompted this?” 

Oh here we go. 

“Well, that’s just it.” Mrs. Hughes admitted, sadly, “Thomas has been… lead along by a member of the house, Tom Branson.” 

“Lead along?” 

“Put through the hoop.” 

“Mrs. Hughes I am psychologist, not a cryptologist.” 

“Thought it was one in the same.” Thomas mumbled bitterly, continuing to look out the window. 

“Oh I have far more fun.” Dr. Kinsey teased. “What’s the point in staring at an ancient slab when I could stare at you instead?” 

“Buggery, Doctor.” Thomas said bitterly, causing Mrs. Hughes to suck in a sharp breath of reproach, “I’ve been buggered and found out.” 

“So you had a good weekend?” Dr. Kinsey said as if Thomas had instead spoken about a picnic at a quiet lake, “With… Tom Branson…” Dr. Kinsey snapped his fingers in knowing, “that’s Lord Grantham’s son-in-law? Sybbie’s father?” 

“Correct.” Mrs. Hughes said tersely, clearly eager to keep Thomas from saying the word ‘bugger’ again. “He and Thomas have been…having fun and were caught in the act. Thomas has been asked to leave the abbey for the moment while his lordship makes his final decision on what course of action to take.” 

“I see.” Dr. Kinsey did not sound happy, indeed he sounded sad, “That must have been a horrific thing to undergo. I’m so sorry, Thomas.” 

But talk of the fabled conversation was just making Thomas grow pained again. He suddenly wanted to see Tom, wanted to be held in comfort, and bowed his head again as his face screwed up. How weak his was- how abysmally weak! If O’Brien could see him now, she’d tear him apart in five minutes- spit up his bones and bathe in his blood. 

Thomas sniveled in spite of himself, choking back a sob. 

Mrs. Hughes patted him tenderly upon the back, a constant presence as Dr. Kinsey waited calmly for the end. Both of them had a bedside manor unique to their own personalities: where Dr. Kinsey insisted without speaking that crying was normal and nothing to fuss over, Mrs. Hughes comforted and soothed, determined to bring back a smile. 

“…Please..” Thomas did not look at either of them, instead wiping hastily at his cheeks to scoop up tears as they fell, “Please let me see Tom-“ 

“Hush now.” Mrs. Hughes wouldn’t even let him finish his sentence. Desperate to be heard, Thomas beseeched for sympathy from Dr. Kinsey who surely would be smart enough to understand that love was not to be trifled with. 

“Please!” Thomas turned to Dr. Kinsey, wringing his hands before the man, “Please I just want to see him!” 

Dr. Kinsey nodded, slowly turning his pen in his fingers as he thought. “It must be awful.” He whispered, “Loving him so much and being apart from him.” 

Thomas was starting to grow hysterical again. Could it be that even Dr. Kinsey would be unsympathetic to their plight? The thought made Thomas’ stomach clench into ugly knots. In an attempt to keep Thomas calm, Mrs. Hughes offered him his handkerchief again laced as it was with medication. It smelt faintly of lavender with the traces of a chemical beneath, and Thomas sniveled into the lace as Mrs. Hughes patted his back. 

“Where did you find him?” Dr. Kinsey asked Mrs. Hughes, refocusing on her in an attempt to keep the conversation moving. 

“In the bedroom. Beside the bed in the corner. It was like he was hiding.” Mrs. Hughes gestured with a hand across the hall. 

“Why did you hide in the bedroom?” Dr. Kinsey asked Thomas. Thomas was unsure to answer or if he even should. He was pointedly petrified at what would come should he tell Dr. Kinsey the truth… but the sounds of his mother crawling across the floor were making him sick to his stomach. He was afraid. Deeply afraid. 

Dr. Kinsey seemed to sense this. He was watching Thomas closely, at the way that he twisted his fingers around the medicated cloth, or how he chewed at his bottom lip till it turned bone white. “Thomas…?” He asked again, careful not to push too hard, “Tell me what happened today.” 

But it was more than about what had happened today. Thomas had been dealing with these marbles in his head for years. It was impossible to know when it had all actually begun, only that some time after his attempt with electrotherapy Thomas had begun to feel like he was being watched. Like everything he did, he was doing wrong. The marbles had picked up strength after Gwen’s luncheon, practically hounding him till he could barely breath at times. 

How could he explain that to Dr. Kinsey without sounding like an insane person? Was it possible? 

Was it wise? 

“…I…” Thomas whispered, “I have something I should tell you… but I’m scared.” 

Dr. Kinsey set down his pen and carefully re arranged his lap so that instead of writing he was focusing on Thomas intensely. They were no longer therapist and patient, merely two friends talking. 

“Why are you scared?” He asked, calmly. 

“I don’t want to go to Briarcliffe.” Thomas admitted, “And I’m afraid once you know my secret that’s where you’ll take me.” 

Dr. Kinsey nodded, seeming to understand. He pursed his lips, setting back in the chair a little. He began to twirl his pen again. 

“I can promise you, I will not take you to Briarcliffe.” Dr. Kinsey said. Thomas didn’t believe him but listened anyways. “At the very worst, you would leave with me for London tonight, and tomorrow we would talk with a very good friend of mine who runs a convalescent home in Rustington. If he and I felt that you needed to be cared for in a more personal way, you would stay there for a couple of weeks and then come home.” 

But that just didn’t seem right. Surely while he was staying in Rustington, someone would alert Briarclifffe and have him carted off? But Dr. Kinsey was watching him closely, and seemed to see he was paranoid. “Thomas, I cannot lie to you legally. I am a doctor under oath.” 

That made sense, logically. But still, Thomas was afraid. 

“Why don’t you tell him?” Mrs. Hughes urged, rubbing him upon the back. Her fingers could feel every bump and curve of his spine through his sweated pajama shirt. 

He supposed there was only one thing left to do. Bite the bullet and take the plunge. 

“…I have…” He swallowed, pinching his eyes closed so as not to see Dr. Kinsey’s shocked facial expression when he finally emitted the ugly truth. “I have marbles in my brain.” He felt tears beginning to slide down his cheeks. 

Well there was no turning back; he’d done it now. 

“They tell me to do bad things. And… and I see things. Bad things. Bad, bad things.” The image of his dead and deformed mother would haunt him for life, he was certain. Of blood gushing out of the Carson’s bathroom tap. 

“What bad things do you see?” Dr. Kinsey asked, politely curious as if Thomas had mentioned he’d been to a botanical garden. 

“…I saw… Blood… gushing out of the- the tap. Filling the bathtub up with blood. It was awful.” Thomas shuddered from the memory, “And- once I saw Mr. Carson without eyes trying to murder me and today-“ 

He paused, the image of his mother making him feel sick to his stomach. “Today I saw my mother… and she was… chasing me. She was deformed. Her legs were deformed. I could hear the bones crunching when she tried to walk. She was crawling on the floor, her nails were scraping on the wood-“ Thomas paused, sniffing as he dabbed at his eyes, “And… And uh… she… she was chasing me.” 

The memory of it made Thomas begin to blubber again. Mrs. Hughes made a tiny sympathetic noise and held him tightly around the shoulders, stroking his arm. 

“I’m so sorry.” Dr. Kinsey said, and he sounded quite sincere. “That sounds awful. You must have been petrified.” 

“I was!” Thomas declared, blinking owlishly up at the man to find he didn’t seem alarmed or even impressed that Thomas had marbles in his brain. He was just the same Dr. Robert Kinsey, calm and brown with leather shoes and briefcase. “I had to cut myself, she made me do it. She told me if she didn’t she’d beat me! So I had to… don’t you see?” Thomas’ tone slowly became lowered, realizing the silliness of his words even as he said them. 

“Why was she so mad?” Dr. Kinsey wondered, politely puzzled. “Your mother had seven children, I should hardly think she’d be rattled by one or two bumps in the night.” 

“Well- I think-“ Thomas sniffed, “It was because she killed herself and I couldn’t.” 

“I see.” Dr. Kinsey murmured, pausing to write a bit on his sketchbook, “So your mother committed suicide too?” 

“Is it hereditary?” Mrs. Hughes asked, curious. 

“Not exactly.” Dr. Kinsey paused in his writing, “Depression and anxiety certainly can be. People with depressed parents have a higher chance of being depressed themselves- and untreated cases of depression like Thomas’ suicide is often an eventual endpoint.” He paused to continue writing. 

“I find it odd that she’d want you to commit suicide too.” Dr. Kinsey added, looking at Thomas with a small frown, “You’d think she’d want the exact opposite since she’d seen personally how it panels out.” 

Thomas felt miserable as Mrs. Hughes patted him on the back. “She hates me. She always hated me.” 

Dr. Kinsey did not rise to the bait of the loaded statement, instead choosing to ask another question: “So you saw blood gushing out of the tap. How?” 

“I… I don’t know.” Thomas admitted, for the logical processing behind blood bursting from a clean water pipe was practically impossible to fathom. 

“I should hope nothing is contaminating the water.” Dr. Kinsey said with a worried frown. 

“I think I hallucinated.” Thomas admitted, for it seemed the most logical option. 

“I think you did too.” Dr. Kinsey agreed. “I think your prior experiences with suicide attempts and water are connected. You tried to kill yourself in a bathtub. When left alone, upset and frightened in a bathroom, you saw blood in a bathtub. It’s hardly difficult to imagine why.” -

Thomas was starting to wonder if he should be worried when Dr. Kinsey smiled and said, “But I shouldn’t be too alarmed if I were you. Hallucinations can be treated, and they aren’t the end of the world. I’m sure it terrified you though.” 

Dr. Kinsey paused, continuing to write on his notepad. He now had a thick sheet of text. Thomas had to wonder what it said. 

“Aren’t you going to ask about the marbles?” Thomas asked, for he’d been certain once Dr. Kinsey found out about them that he’d immediately pounce on the problem. Instead they’d barely been mentioned. 

Dr. Kinsey glanced up, politely puzzled, “Not really. Do you want to talk more about them?” 

“They’re… bad.” Thomas frowned, confused, “They tell me bad things. They’re the ones that… that… made me go over the deep end in the first place.” 

Dr. Kinsey sat up straight in his chair, fixing Thomas with a rather pointed stare that almost burned at the edges. Thomas suddenly felt like he was being interrogated. “What do these marbles look like?” 

What? 

“…Uh…” Thomas had utterly no idea. He’d never once thought about it.   
“I… don’t know?” 

“Are they colorful? Are they plain? Are they glass, wooden? What are they?” 

“I- I don’t know.” Thomas admitted, unsure. Where on earth would he find the answer to such a question? He could hardly peer in his own ear. 

“Where do they live?” Dr. Kinsey asked. 

“…I guess…” Thomas couldn’t really say, “In my brain?” 

“Are they inside or outside of your skull?” 

But these questions were just getting more and more absurd. Thomas didn’t know what they looked like or where they lived! They weren’t physical things! They were metaphorical. 

“I… I don’t know!” Thomas protested, “Am I crazy or not?” He demanded of Dr. Kinsey. 

The man looked taken aback. He capped his pen sliding it inside his front lapel and putting away his papers so that he could finally relax his “leg desk”. He crossed his arms over his chest, only to pause back and take a sip of tea. Thomas had yet to touch his own and knew that it would be lukewarm when he finally did. 

“Crazy? I’m unsure what you mean by that-“ 

“Cracked. Unhinged. Mad.” Thomas supplied. “You know what I mean, you’re a psychiatrist for gods sake!” 

“…Thomas, I’ve been in this practice now for ten years.” Dr. Kinsey said, calm and quiet as ever, “I’ve talked with everyone from confirmed lunatics to people suffering from mild marital problems. None of them were ‘crazy’. The human psychosis-“ 

But Thomas didn’t want to hear about the human psychosis. He wanted to know point blank what the truth was for him. Was he mad, or was he not? Miserable, he bowed his head in his hands, sniffing softly before glancing back up to meet Dr. Kinsey’s eyes. 

“… Dr. Kinsey, please.” Thomas whispered. 

Dr. Kinsey uncrossed his arms, hands on his knees. 

“No, Thomas.” He shook his head, taking off his glasses to wipe them with a handkerchief from his breast pocket, “You’re not crazy. You’re suffering from severe anxiety, depression, delirium even.” He put back on his glasses, “Today you suffered from a CVH. A complex visual hallucination. It was brought on by stress, a feeling of helplessness, and a lack of stability in your future.” 

“He didn’t sleep at all last night!” Mrs. Hughes added in helpful tones. 

“And delirium!” Dr. Kinsey added, “But in that CVH, it was a clear and obvious figure that appeared to you. It was unmistakably your mother, correct?” 

Thomas thought back on the figure in the bathtub, the woman crawling across the floor. Yes, there was no denying who it was. Like any child, he could pick his mother instinctively out of a crowd even when she looked like a zombie. 

“Now consider those marbles of yours.” Dr. Kinsey crossed his arms again, relaxing into his chair. Maybe his back was starting to hurt, “You don’t know what they look like, you don’t know where they are, you just know they’re marbles. How? How do you know they’re marbles? You’ve never seen them. They could be butterflies or pins. Buttons or strawberries-“ 

No, they were marbles. 

“No, they’re marbles.” Thomas said, with the only knowledge he could possess brought forth, “They roll.” 

“Many things roll.” Dr. Kinsey shrugged. 

“they’re small and round-!” 

“So are blueberries," Dr. Kinsey said, “And they roll, mark you-!” 

“They… they…” Thomas fished through his memory desperate. “They ping and plop-!” 

“Do you hear it?” 

“No.” He’d never technically ‘heard’ it, he just knew that they did. 

“Then how do you know that they do?” Dr. Kinsey asked. Thomas was starting to grow incredibly frustrated. How the fuck was he supposed to know any of this? If someone could give him a hammer he would crack open his brains and find the answer but until then-? 

“I don’t know!” Thomas protested. 

“Well I know.” Dr. Kinsey over rode his voice before it turned into a shout. “You know they do because you’ve been told they do. The marbles are not a hallucination, or a type of psychosis. They are a social stimuli.” 

“A what?” 

“What do we say when someone is ‘mad’?” Dr. Kinsey used his fingers like quotation marks at this. Thomas was too befuddled to speak so the silence pressed on. But Mrs. Hughes was sharp and clever, certainly more so than Thomas, and began to smile with understanding as she said: 

“…He’s lost his marbles.” She was almost smiling now, amazed. 

“Exactly.” Dr. Kinsey smirked. “That’s all it is.” He slapped his knee with a hand, “You’ve been told to think of a rolling marbles in madness, so you do. The same way we’re conditioned to think of butterflies in our stomaches when we’re nervous.” 

But Thomas wasn’t satisfied. The idea of being declared insane so terrified him that nothing put him off. He imagined Dr. Kinsey was simply trying to placate him. Make him feel like he wasn’t losing his mind. But he was- surely he was-? 

Thomas chewed on his thumbnail aggressively, wishing he could just rip the skin clear off and be done with it. 

Dr. Kinsey recognized this once again, he was so good at reading people, at reading Thomas in particular, that when Thomas took a bad turn Dr. Kinsey was already two steps ahead of him. Dr. Kinsey seemed uncomfortable in his chair. He grimaced, shifting carefully. He stayed silent for a moment, unsure of how to go on. It seemed he was having some kind of internal dilemma. 

“…I will tell you this for your sense of security alone.” Dr. Kinsey finally spoke again, tone shifting to a tense edge. It seemed his professional morals were battling against his desire to help a current patient. 

“I handled a patient once who suffered from psychosis. They were completely out of touch with reality, and could not be contacted at all. I tried for many months, but to no success. Do you know what they told me?” 

Thomas shook his head, feeling a bit like a child listening to a rather unnerving bed time story. 

“They told me a rose chafer was crawling under their skin.” Dr. Kinsey said with a small dark smile, “That they could see it, touch it… that they knew its shape color and size. Even its name: Riley.” Dr. Kinsey tilted his head a bit unfazed, “The beetle would crawl into their stomach to hide from people who tried to find it, and would crawl into their ear to tell them to do things. Such as drown their five children, and set their house on fire.” 

Why did Thomas have a feeling those were not random concepts. Mrs. Hughes hissed through gritted teeth, eyes narrowed and unnerved as if she felt physical pain from the concepts. 

“A naughty little rose chafer named Riley.” Dr. Kinsey said the name fondly, as if they’d all played fun games together while simultaneously burning down houses and murdering children in bathtubs. “Versus… marbles. Supposed marbles that roll and plink and plop. Tell me Thomas, have your marbles ever told you to hurt someone?” 

Thomas shook his head. 

“To burn down a building?” 

He shook his head again. 

“Do they even say anything at all?” 

Oh _did they ever_. The little fuckers wouldn’t shut up! 

“They say I’m a child molester, a freak, a pervert… a gunsel… a slut.” Thomas closed his eyes, shaking his head in despair. “They tell me i’m foul. A monster.” 

“Mmm.” Dr. Kinsey nodded his head. “Do they actually speak to you? Do hear physical voices?” 

Thomas shook his head again. He supposed as he knew that the marbles were marbles, he likewise knew what they were saying. Odd, that. 

“So, really, you’re just experiencing unnecessary guilt with no where to go. Just… rattling in your head.” 

The word ‘rattle’ set off a spew of memories. Rattle, rattle, roll. 

And suddenly images were popping like fireworks inside Thomas’ head. He clutched hard at his skull, wincing as if from the force of a migraine. 

“Thomas-?” Dr. Kinsey asked. 

“Rattle, rattle, roll.” Thomas said the words out loud for the first time, “That’s what I heard, all day in my head, the day I attempted suicide the first time. I- Rattle, rattle, roll… what does it mean?” 

“I’m unsure.” Dr. Kinsey murmured. “It might be metaphorical. Rattling for movement, attempts at good, rolling for exhaustion and lack of result-“ 

“Am I crazy?” Thomas asked for the umpteenth time. 

“No.” Dr. Kinsey repeated with a small smile. “No Thomas, you are not crazy.” He smiled tenderly at Thomas. 

Slowly Thomas began to believe him. 

It was such a relief, to know that the marbles and the hallucinations were not indications that he was beyond reach. Briarcliffe had hung like an anvil over his head for nearly a year now, but with Dr. Kinsey’s promise Thomas felt like he could breath again for the first time in a long time. He wasn’t crazy, he wasn’t insane. He was just stressed and confused… tired. Depressed. In need of a good sleep. 

“Do you feel better now?” Dr. Kinsey asked as Thomas wiped away fresh tears from his face. 

“Yes.” Thomas said, and he meant it. 

~*~

That night, Carson went home early. 

It wasn’t common; usually Carson went home close to ten. Tonight, however, he went home after the family supped, deciding to step out at eight. This meant that the night’s proceeding were wrapped up by Mrs. Patmore instead of Mr. Carson and he left the final lock up in her trusting hands as he took his coat and hat to the front door of the abbey for the final twist of the key. He was met, halfway, by Lord Grantham who held Tiaa in his arms much like one would hold a baby. It really wasn’t all that peculiar- Lord Grantham had been away for quite some time now and was utterly fond of the dog. 

“Carson.” Lord Grantham addressed his butler warmly. Mr. Carson tipped his hat to the man. 

“M’lord.” 

“Going home early tonight?” Lord Grantham asked, noting his coat over his arm. 

“Indeed, if that is alright M’lord?” Carson added by force of habit. He could not deny that his loyalty to the man was being waged against his desperate desire to return home and comfort his wife who must have had a very trying day. She was incredibly fond of Thomas; this had no doubt shaken her. 

“Certainly.” Lord Grantham petted Tiaa’s head as they walked side by side. “Bloody awful business.” 

“Dr. Kinsey was called in by Dr. Clarkson, he’s given Thomas a tonic to take for his nerves- he should have been on it years ago if you ask me.” Carson muttered as he fiddled with the abbey’s front lock. He could now walk out and let the door lock behind him. With the click of the latch all would be well. Still he waited on the stoop, shrugging on his coat and buttoning up his front. 

“So he’s on the mend?” Lord Grantham asked hopefully. 

“I believe so, yes.” If two doctors couldn’t put him right, what else could? “Dr. Kinsey will be staying with us tonight— there’s no room at the Grantham Arms.” 

“Oh nonsense.” Lord Grantham scoffed at the idea; where would the man sleep? On the couch? “Send him our way and we’ll put him up for the night.” 

“As you wish, M’lord.” Carson stepped back inside the house, heading over to the telephone instead, “I’ll just call Mrs. Hughes.” 

“I’ll send you with the chauffeur.” Lord Grantham added in a moment of generosity. “He can take you home and bring back Dr. Kinsey.” 

“Very good, M’lord.” Carson said, fiddling with the number rotary. “Elsie, it’s Charles-“ 

 

 

So it was that as Carson eventually left with the chauffeur, Lord Grantham waited by the door and sent Anna to make up a guest room. Tiaa all but fell asleep in his arms, soothed by his ministrations. Lord Grantham squinted up the drive as he saw his chauffeur return from the night. 

The car swung around front with a slow loping grace, and out came Dr. Kinsey who looked utterly exhausted. He yawned even as he walked up the stoop, smiling politely as he extended his hand for Lord Grantham to shake. He didn’t mind the dog in the slightest. 

“Lord Grantham.” Dr. Kinsey sounded sleepy even in tone, “Thank you for your hospitality.” 

“Nonsense.” Lord Grantham assured him, noting with pleased interest that though Kinsey was a guest and not a servant he still made to close the front door so that Lord Grantham wouldn’t have to. “Thank you for your swift arrival. I hope all is well?” 

“Oh yes. Quite well. The weather seems to be turning for the better.” They walked side by side across the main hall, bound for the gallery stairs. 

“I confess I was referring to Barrow.” 

“Ah. yes.” Dr. Kinsey just gave him an absent smile. “Yes I’m glad to know others are thinking of him.” 

They mounted the stairs together, going at a leisurely pace. “How is he?” Lord Grantham asked. “Has he spoken at all?” 

“Mm? Oh yes we had a nice conversation.” Dr. Kinsey would give nothing away; they reached the top and Lord Grantham decided to take it upon himself to lead Dr. Kinsey to the bachelor wing. Technically this was the job of a valet or a maid, but he found the man’s presence enjoyable and wanted to know more details. 

“I suppose you won’t tell me a damn thing.” Lord Grantham cursed for humor’s sake, grinning at Dr. Kinsey as they rounded the corner of the hall. Dr. Kinsey chuckled. 

“You are quite astute Lord Grantham.” Dr. Kinsey could not help but tease. 

“And I suppose being his employer counts for nothing?” 

Dr. Kinsey just smiled and shook his head. Lord Grantham tisked and rolled his eyes. 

The rest of the walk to the bachelor wing was dampened in mood by the growing sound of whimpering and wailing. Muffled by a door, it was hardly intrusive, but it was still apparent and it gave Dr. Kinsey pause as the sounds of despair overtook the comfortable calm silence of night. Lord Grantham bristled at the sound, displeased. The bachelors corridor was expansive, but only one rooms was occupied, its door closed. 

“That’ll be Mr. Branson.” Lord Grantham murmured, keeping his voice low so as not to be detected beyond a closed door, “I suppose you’ve heard about this business between Barrow and my son-in-law.” 

“I have.” Dr. Kinsey listened intently, ear bent in Branson’s direction. He listened for the sound of breathing- the hitching and gasping. Was he panicked? Was he in pain? Was he delirious? It was difficult to tell from a distance. The doctor in Kinsey wanted to get close- to examine and to confirm. 

“Awful business.” Lord Grantham admitted, “When this is where it all ends up. Hardly healthy, is it?” 

“Mmm.” Dr. Kinsey smiled absently, still listening intently, “I’m afraid I cannot agree, I am a student of Freud after all. Shall I speak to Tom?” 

“That’s not necessary.” Lord Grantham assured him.” Your room is just down the hall; if you need anything do not hesitate to ring for a servant. We tend to fend for ourselves at night but I’m sure they’d be happy to assist.” 

“I doubt the need will arise. Thank you Lord Grantham.” They shook hands again. 

But as Dr. Kinsey washed up and changed for the night, he found himself listening intently to his door for signs of Tom down the hall. He disrobed, and put on pajamas, loaned by the family in his time of need. He shaved, and washed his face, cracking his neck as he combed his hair. He rifled through his briefcase, sorting papers for Thomas’ file that he would have to add to the main desk once he was back home in London. He hoped his maid Alice would remember to feed his mother’s cat while he was away. 

Though god only knows that animal lacked for nothing. 

Still, Dr. Kinsey heard Tom crying.   
He checked his pocket watch. It was nearly ten at night. 

Unable to shake the feeling that something was amiss, Dr. Kinsey carefully rose from bed to open his door, padding quietly across the bachelor’s corridor till he arrived at Tom’s closed door. It was dark in the hallways now; everyone was asleep. Careful not to be too loud, Dr. Kinsey knocked softly upon Tom’s door, noticing that as he did so the sobs seemed stifled as if Tom was shoving his fist in his mouth. 

“Go away damn you-!” He heard, choked from beyond, “Damn you all to hell-“ 

“Mr. Branson, my name is Robert Kinsey.” Dr. Kinsey paused, unsure if it was wise to provoke, “I’m Thomas’ therapist.” 

But at the mention of Thomas’ name, several things happened. 

The door was wrenched open to reveal a thoroughly disheveled man. Tom Branson stumbled out into the hallway, drunk and wild with tears soaking his blotched face and his clothes untucked. He stumbled, groping like a mad man, and finally collided against Dr. Kinsey to take them both to the ground. At first, Dr. Kinsey thought he might be struck, and brought his hands up in defense at once. But Tom didn’t want to fight. Tom wanted to talk- he was babbling as he grabbed at Dr. Kinsey’s pajamas. 

“Please- please I beg of you-!” Tom sobbed into Dr. Kinsey’s chest. Dr. Kinsey was baffled, shocked at how to best proceed. Damnit he’d forgotten his glasses in his room too- he could barely make out Tom’s facial features. “Please, tell me how he is— tell me he’s not dead— tell me he’s not dead!” Tom howled at this. 

Determined to get a grip on this conversation before it truly spiraled over the edge, Dr. Kinsey groped blindly in the dark to take Tom by the arms and pull him forcibly away from his chest. 

“He’s fine, Tom- look at me!” Dr. Kinsey urged, for Tom did not seem to even know where he was, “I spoke to him only a few hours ago. He’s resting peacefully; he’s fine!” 

But Tom did not seem to understand the definition of ‘fine’ anymore. He was drunk, disorientated, and exhausted. He was heartbroken, and probably felt horribly isolated. Each of these elements combined together for a dangerous molotov cocktail as the normally composed many crumple upon the bachelor’s corridor floor. 

“What on earth is going on-? Oh for god’s sake man…”   
The noise had woken other occupants, a tall man with a long straight nose and black hair that stood stiffly out from his face as if freshly washed from pomade. Dr. Kinsey was certain he’d seen this man before… but he couldn’t place where. He must be another one of Lord Grantham’s son-in-laws. 

“Please, I beg of you-“ Tom gripped at Kinsey’s pajama top for strength, “I beg of you…” But he could not go on, mumbling to himself as he bowed his head. Thick tears fell from his eyelashes straight to the carpet beneath them. 

“…He’s fine, Tom.” Dr. Kinsey repeated, feeling that perhaps Tom had not been able to understand him the first time, “He’s fine. He’s perfectly fine. I gave him a tonic to help him sleep, he’s resting comfortably.” 

“I’m sorry-“ The new man said, shifting nervously from foot to foot. Dr. Kinsey noted Lady Mary had walked upon them all, in a luxurious silk housecoat with her hair slightly bouncy around the ears. She glared at Tom, as if she felt him over reacting, and then turned away without another word to leave them all in the hallway. Perhaps the foreign man was Mary’s husband. 

“It’s quite alright.” Dr. Kinsey assured him. “It’s quite alright.” He patted Tom tenderly upon the back, taking a moment to note that Tom’s breathes were coming out in wheezes. Either he’d smoked a whole pack of cigarettes or he was catching a cold. 

“He- he did this because of them-!” Tom turned from hysterical to malevolent in a heartbeat, pointing an ugly finger at the new man who winced at Tom’s suggestion, “He did this because of me- because of all of us! We threw him away and he tried to die!” Tom broke down again. 

But blame was useless in these matters and the sooner Tom figured that out, the better. Sympathetic, Dr. Kinsey continued to pat him gently on the back hoping his touch would at least ground Tom with a better sense of reality. 

“Mr. Branson,” Dr. Kinsey reminded him gently, “He attempted suicide because of stimuli that overrode his rational thinking, nothing more. None of these men ‘did’ anything to him.” 

“Please, you’re a doctor-“ Tom Branson looked up with blood shot eyes, back to grabbing at the front of Dr. Kinseys’ pajamas’ again. They were starting to wrinkle under his iron grip, “Please, I beg of you. You’re a man of science. You know I’m not a fool- I’m not sick- let me go to him now. Let me be with him. Tell them that we’re not insane-“ 

“Tom, I quite agree that you’re not insane, nor fools- but right now you are very upset.” Dr. Kinsey murmured. No, Thomas didn’t need to see any this. “If he were to see you this way it would over stimulate him… and that is something we desperately need to avoid.” 

“But he needs me, please-“ 

“He needs calm more.” Dr. Kinsey said. 

Defeated by rationality, Tom whimpered and brought a face to his hands to wipe away the many tracks of his drunken tears. 

At the end of the hall, the unknown son-in-law kept silent guard. 

 

 

That night, in an attempt to keep Tom calm, Dr. Kinsey slept in his room at the foot of his bed. 

He reasoned to himself internally that, should Tom take up in a flight of fancy and try to climb out the window or make a bolt for the door, he would stand the best chance at stopping him. Mercifully, Tom had nearly consumed an entire bottle of whiskey and upon hitting the bed promptly passed out still fully clothed. In an attempt to get Tom somewhat decent, Dr. Kinsey had to rely upon the help of the second son-in-law, whom it turned out was named Henry Talbot. Dr. Kinsey had assumed correctly to imagine the man married to Lady Mary, and he also happened to be a friend of Tom’s which came in great aid. Together, Henry and Dr. Kinsey put Tom to bed, dressing him for sleep and tucking him in so that he could snore softly upon his pillow. As Henry went back to Lady Mary, Dr. Kinsey fell upon Tom’s fainting couch and promptly passed out with a small woolen quilt thrown over his shoulders. Each room of the abbey’s boasted a fire, which was pleasant. Despite being without a good coverlet, Dr. Kinsey was far from cold. 

~*~

The next morning, Tom woke with a splitting headache, and an unfamiliar man sleeping on his couch. 

It was difficult to remember the night in full. He knew there had been great pain, and great amounts of drinking. He could distinctly remember crying, but knew for a fact he’d blacked out. The last time he’d been awake, he’d had on clothes. Now, he was in pajamas, and a man was on his fainting couch curled up in a quilt that was much too small for pleasant sleeping. Tom stared at the man from his bed, trying to rise up only to fail and fall back onto his pillows. God how his head _ached!_

He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, damning the sunlight that glimmered from beyond his curtains. 

Who the fuck was on his couch? And where was Thomas? And why did his head ache _so damn much?_

But then, Tom noted the bottle of whiskey on his bedside table- a wedding present from Kieran that had been greatly aged and of high content. It was nearly all gone now, which made Tom’s eyes widen. Dear god he was lucky not to have killed himself if he drank all that last night— maybe the man on the couch had drunk some with him? Tom aimed a peek at the man again and noted he was drooling out of the side of his open mouth. 

He was so very familiar but…. Tom was unsure where he’d seen the man before. 

The door to Tom’s bedroom opened, and at once Tom shut his eyes to pretend to be asleep.   
He didn’t want to deal with the world right now. 

A tiny gasp was followed by the sounds of pittering feet. Tom cracked open one weary bloodshot eye to see it was Gertie, the lowliest maid, come to re-stoke his morning fire. She timidly peered over the man asleep on Tom’s fainting couch, clearly unsure what to do with him. 

But then, the man opened his eyes and both of them startled.   
“Ooh- ah!” The man cried out, clearly not used to being woken up by a pre-teen maid only five inches from his face. He clutched at his chest where his heart must surely be pounding, groping at his breast as if looking for his pocket and what might usually be there. He cursed, desperately rubbing his eyes; it was like they stung. Maybe he was looking for his glasses? 

“Beggin’ yer pardon, sir.” Gertie dipped her skirts, frightened, and scuttled away to Tom’s fire to begin stoking it. “I’m ever so dreadfully sorry-“ 

“Don’t be.” The man said groggily. Tom kept watching out of the corner of his eye, determined to place the man’s face to a name. He knew this man… who was he? “I must have given you quite a shock. What time is it?” 

“Six o’clock, sir.” Gertie replied. 

“My you’re up early.” The man declared, coughing and rubbing the back of his neck. “What’s your name?” 

“Gertrude sir.” Gertie dipped her skirts again, only to resume sweeping the ashes from Tom’s fireplace. 

“Well, Gertrude, I’m Dr. Robert Kinsey.” The man replied. “and I apologize for having startled you.” 

Tom shifted upon his bed, thinking. _Dr. Kinsey… Dr. Kinsey…_   
Dr. Kinsey!! 

He bolted upright, crying out from the pain that suddenly burst into his temple. The result was a badly frightened scullery maid, as Gertie cried out again and nearly fell into the freshly lit fireplace. Dr. Kinsey was likewise startled, jumping about a foot in the air as he clutched blindly at the world around him without his glasses. 

“Oh- ah-!” Tom moaned, aggressively, pain dumbing him down the Neanderthal speech. “I- Doctor-… oh…” He groaned, clutching his eyes with both his hands. “I… Wait… don’t… Thomas.” 

Gertie scooted out the door, clearly eager to get as far away from Tom as possible before she suffered a third panic attack. 

“That’s quite enough of that, Tom.” Dr. Kinsey said, “I think we’ve scared the maid enough for one day, don’t you?” 

 

In an attempt to not scare any more maids, Dr. Kinsey returned to his room to dress while Tom desperate drank two Beechams and a very tall glass of water. In an act of desperation, Tom had to call upon the services of John Bates just to get dressed. He kept stumbling, tripping over his own trouser legs till Mr. Bates came in with a clothes horse and managed to put him right. 

The servants knew, Tom was certain about it. As Mr. Bates dressed him, Tom caught him staring at Tom with narrowed eyes, judging him up for size. Tom didn’t know what he might see at the moment- perhaps just a desperately hung-over man who couldn’t tie up his shoes- but Tom didn’t care. It wasn’t about what the others saw. It was about what Thomas saw. Like the time the Dowager bought him that ridiculous book on how to be a gentleman. Why should he have need for such a book when Sybil had thought him more than a gentleman? 

“Perhaps another Beechams, Mr. Branson?” Was all Mr. Bates could think to say. 

“I think I’m good.” Tom muttered, though in truth he’d never been farther from it. 

Dr. Kinsey wanted to catch the first train out, not even staying for breakfast with the family. Tom couldn’t manage to join them at the table either- he was sick of their faces. He never wanted to speak to any of them again. So bitter and hateful was he that he almost wanted to lash out- set their house on fire or smash their valuable things- that’d show them! But tom remembered how it _hand’t_ shown them… not back in Ireland and not now in England. He kept his hands to his sides though his fingers twitched with rage, and joined Dr. Kinsey as he walked down the main gallery staircase to head out the front door. The chauffeur was to take him to the station. 

Dr. Kinsey was a relatively calm and quiet spoken man, but Tom was greatly intruiged by him. This man was Thomas’ therapist, and reputedly knew more about him than anyone else alive. Dr. Kinsey was the one who had saved Thomas the first time, and now he’d come again in their hour of need. Tom couldn’t think of a man whom he admired more (besides Thomas himself), and viewed Dr. Kinsey in a glowing light as they headed for the front door. 

“How do I handle this?” Tom asked him quietly. “How do I protect Thomas and my daughter at the same time?” 

Dr. Kinsey did not answer right away, eyes narrowing as Andy held back the front door so that they could step out onto the lawn. Gravel and snow crunched under their feet and Dr. Kinsey instinctively clutched his coat tighter about him. He was a thin man. 

“I don’t think this is something you alone can handle.” Dr. Kinsey admitted, “I’d have to discuss it further with you in a private session before I can give full comment, but-“ 

“Dr. Kinsey-!” 

Tom pursed his lips, looking away as Lord Grantham came out of the dining hall to greet Kinsey at the door. Tom stood by the car, not trusting himself to look at the man anymore as Dr. Kinsey and Lord Grantham said goodbye. 

“I’m just on my way out. Thank you for allowing your chauffeur to deliver me to the station.” Dr. Kinsey shook his hand smoothly.

“No, it is we who must thank you for your promptness.” Lord Grantham replied. 

This pissed Tom off on multiple levels, for how dare Lord Grantham insist that he was in any way grateful to Kinsey when he’d been the one to put Thomas in such a state in the first place? That was the problem with his lot; they thought they held the monopoly on honor. Tom couldn’t stand it. There was no honor in this. None at all. 

“I was more than happy to come down.” Dr. Kinsey said as they walked to the car, “The Carson’s have my number, so they can call should the need ever arise again. I’ll check in on Thomas in a couple of days to make sure he’s doing well.” 

In some weird force of habit, Tom opened the door for Dr. Kinsey so that the good doctor could climb up into his seat by the chauffeur. Tom handed him his briefcase on the way up, shutting the door to talk to him through the window. 

“He won’t be well, you realize that?” Tom said bitterly. Dr. Kinsey listened carefully. “Not until all this is righted.” 

“Well then.” Dr. Kinsey clutched his briefcase to his lap, tipping his trilby hat to Tom, “Let’s get all this righted then, eh? No use complaining about the problem when we could be fixing it instead.” 

“How very true.” Lord Grantham said, probably trying to be friendly but coming off to Tom as a smart ass. 

“Lord Grantham’s idea is for me to give up.” Tom snapped, “To ‘come to my senses’ if you will. What’s your recommendation? That I got to convalescent?” 

“Come to your senses?” Dr. Kinsey repeated, quirking a brow, “My goodness Tom, have they ever left you?” 

This was rather high praise coming from a man who had to baby sit him while drunk.   
Dr. Kinsey tipped his hat one final time and was off, the chauffeur pulling away and down the snowy drive so that he could depart for the station. 

“Well I hope that wizened you up.” Lord Grantham said from Tom’s left. Tom still did not turn to look at him, instead watching the slickened black car finally slip out of the drive. Maybe Lord Grantham hadn’t wanted to see the double intent to Dr. Kinsey’s but Tom had. Dr. Kinsey had not urged Tom to convalesce or to see sense. 

He had instead reminded Tom that his senses had never abandoned him.   
That he was still in control of the situation. 

But what Tom needed were allies. Edith and Bertie were on their way, but it was difficult to call them in at the drop of a hat. Bertie was a Marquess now, and Edith had Marigold to look to. No- when one needed allies, they called in family. Family came first- family came true. On Irelands beautiful soil, there was a concept about family. That it ought to hold and protect you. Cherish you. This was something that the English had never been able to fully understand. How many times had Tom heard of a father disowning his child- dear god Thomas’ own father had done the same. 

No, Tom was sick of standing alone in the wind. He wanted his brother by him.   
Moved in a fit of high emotion, Tom returned to the main hall, stepping up and in from the cold and snow to make a bee-line for the telephone. He felt like a child running to it’s mother to tattle on a naughty sibling but could not be fit to care. 

He needed his mother now in this moment, but his mother was dead. Who better to rely upon than his older brother. 

Thomas was gone from him, ripped from his side, and it left an ugly wound with such a pain like he hadn’t felt since Sybil. It left him raw and exposed- vulnerable to attack. His fingers danced over Kieran’s auto shop number. 

The phone dialed, and Tom waited, leaning heavily against the wall. 

_“Branson’s Mechanics.”_

Tom closed his eyes, brow furrowed at his brother’s voice. Even distant, even over the phone, it was warmer than Lord Grantham’s as of late. That was an ugly reckoning in Tom’s eyes, particularly when he remembered how warm and kind Lord Grantham had once been. 

“Kieran.” Tom murmured, rubbing his brow softly, “It’s Tom. I need your help.” 

_“Jesus feckin’ christ, what have you done now?”_ Kieran demanded in a loud angry scowl. 

“Oh, what have I done you wonder? It’s not me, it’s all the rest.” Tom grumbled, “They’ve thrown Thomas out of the house and forbade me from seeing him. If I try to see him, I lose Sybbie.” 

_“An’ yer surprised?”_ Kieran demanded, but it was obvious he was quite affronted by it all, _“The English are sadists.”_

“Well there must have been some Irish blood in Sybil then.” Tom snapped. Kieran had a funny way of forgetting his wife had been English. 

_“Maybe. She was your wife, you know best. So what do you want from me?”_

“Look the shit pot of it is that Thomas has a history of attempting suicide. These lot think he’s fragile, but what he really is is rattled an-“ 

_“Christ you really know how to pick ‘em. All the flowery boys in England and you get the one with a knife to his neck!”_

“Wrists actually.” Tom mumbled, unsure if it even mattered anymore. 

_“Y’keep callin an’ moanin’ to me, but what do you need of me?”_ Kieran demanded, never one to just sit and talk. He liked action, he liked results. Tom had always been the philosophical one of the pair of them. 

“I need you to come to the abbey and back me up. As soon as possible. I’ll pay you to close the garage, however long you need-“ 

_“Christ Tommy- I don’t know-“_

“Kieran we’re brothers. Back me up here! Help me protect Thomas until I can be with him again.” 

_“How?!”_ Kieran demanded, incredulous, _“By holdin’ his hand or something? Look, mark me Tom I’m not about to skin you for bein’ different but if you think I’m gonna let your fancy man cry on my shoulder you’ve got another thing comin’!”_

“Listen, I know you theink you’re good lookin’-“ Tom sneered, “But you couldn’t catch a fish like Thomas with a beer baited hook. All I want from you is to help me hold my corner against this family- Kieran my daughter is in danger. I have to protect my rights to her.” 

_“Aye, an’ I’m not surprised they’d challenge them. Feckin’ English.”_ Kieran cursed again. 

“So can I expect you?” Tom demanded. 

_“Aye… I guess you can.”_ Kieran sounded ready to go out for a pint in sheer exhaustion. 

“Thank you Kieran.” Tom breathed a sigh of relief, “Truly.” 

But Kieran, just like Henry, needed to know more: “Please just promise me this isn’t some kind of stunt to show off the system. I hate the English too but by god I wouldn’t kiss a man for it.” 

But Kieran had it all wrong. Tom didn’t hate the English- at least not all of them. He hated the system that made them powerful and their enemies weak. The cruelty of the world in which they thrived and dominated. He’d thought the Crawley’s different, but he’d been proven wrong. 

“I love him, Kieran.” Tom said, just as proudly as he’d done before in front of the Crawley’s. “And you’re wrong. I don’t hate the English, just their system of power and cruelty.” 

_“Look, I’ll be there tomorrow and we can argue about this then.”_ Kieran grumbled. 

“Goodbye, Kieran.” Tom felt a sudden enormous pang of affection for Kieran. For all he was, and more importantly for all he was not. 

Grumpy? Yes.   
Arrogant? At times.   
Cruel? …No. Never. 

By the door to the dining hall, Lord Grantham paused, his head bent in Tom’s direction. Tom did not acknowledge his stare. 

~*~

After the horrific events of Wednesday, Thursday was calm and quiet. Dr. Kinsey had given Thomas medicine for his anxiety, a sort of liquid one could smell against a handkerchief. Thomas used his dark blue one, and kept the little brown glass bottle on him at all times as he slept downstairs on the Carson’s couch. He’d tried to get up and do some work, to sit with Mrs. Hughes in the garden as she plotted out where she wanted her vegetables. But he’d been so woozy and disorientated that Mrs. Hughes had bade him to sit down on the couch, and he’d ended up falling asleep shortly thereafter. Mrs. Hughes had finished up her work in the garden, bathed, changed into a clean skirt, and sat down on the couch near Thomas’ head to work on a cross stitch that said: _“The Early Bird Catches the Worm”_. 

Thomas drifted in and out, sleepy. When he came to, it was growing close to dinner time and Mrs. Hughes had set out a beef stew on the stove. The result was a house full of sumptuous smells, enticing Thomas to waking moments as he shifted upon the couch and sighed against Mrs. Hughes’ thigh. 

His heavily bandaged arms felt like lead, but Thomas was still compelled to reach up. To touch the thick fabric of Mrs. Hughes navy pleated skirt. To even let his fingers graze against her cross stitch to where she’d embroidered flowers before. They were beautiful, in pink and blue, and felt incredibly soft against his fingers. 

“What do you think?” Mrs. Hughes asked, showing him her cross stitch. He tried to sit up a little but needed her assistance. He was exhausted and confused, in need of a good meal before he could even think to start getting his strength back. “Are you feeling better?” 

“Tired.” Thomas mumbled, rubbing at his eyes. He wanted to put his head back down again, but the only place was Mrs. Hughes lap and that just didn’t seem proper. 

“I went to the village yesterday morning.” Mrs. Hughes said, “I got something for you.” 

“Mmm?” Thomas mumbled, confused. What had she gotten him? What did he need?   
Did she get him Tom? That would be a lovely present. 

“Here.” Mrs. Hughes rose up from the couch, setting her cross stitch on her antique coffee table to pick up a paper sack from the kitchen table. It was slim but firm, and she brought it over for his inspection so that he rubbed at his eyes again and looked down at his lap. Mrs. Hughes sat back on the couch, relaxing as Thomas fished through the brown paper sack to pull out- 

A notebook? His brow furrowed in confusion as he observed the black leather, clasped on the side and stamped with gold ink on the front. _“Rofing”_ it read…. what was Rofing? 

The paper sack likewise included a little cardboard box, slim and long which opened to reveal several black pencils and a sharpener all packaged together in a comfortable set. 

Thomas didn’t understand, what was this? 

“What is this?” He asked, confused. “Is this… for butlers?” 

Mrs. Hughes smiled, tittering softly as she took away the now empty brown paper sack. She folded it several times, putting it on the coffee table next to her cross stitch. 

“It’s for artists.” She corrected him. “It’s a sketchpad.” 

Thomas blinked, staring at the black leather notepad. With heavy hands, he undid the clasp and opened it to see that the inside pages were blank, creamy white, and smooth. Inside the front cover, more gold text was printed: _Rofing, for all your artistry needs. Quality sketch pads and artist supplies since 1822_. 

Thomas shook his head, comprehension dawning upon him.   
He had a sketchpad. Mrs. Hughes had gotten him a sketchpad.   
But why? 

Thomas turned, looking at Mrs. Hughes who was smiling at him tenderly. He was amazed in that moment, so sorely touched that he felt like Mrs. Hughes had cured him of a debilitating illness- like she were an angel instead of a human being. 

He supposed she really was. 

“…Why are you so kind to me?” He asked, his voice a whisper. Mrs. Hughes just smiled and petted his arm, her pruned fingers toyed at the edge of his gauze wraps. 

“I have no children, Thomas.” She reminded him softly, eyes downcast upon his new Rofing sketchpad, “I look at you, Daisy, and Anna as my children, though I have to share Daisy with Mrs. Patmore and Anna is a mother now all her own. But I don’t have to share you with anyone- or so I’m determined.” 

The fact that Mrs. Hughes wanted to covet him, to keep him as her child struck Thomas in a bitter and sore spot that had so badly needed to be caressed for years. Miserable and yet healed, Thomas laid his head down upon her lap, allowing her to wrap an arm around his shoulders as he clutched tightly to his new sketchpad. His most precious item. 

“… Please don’t ever stick a spoon down your throat again.” Mrs. Hughes murmured, fingers caressing his hair. He’d not put pomade in it yesterday or today, so it was feathery soft. Thomas closed his eyes, turning his head so that he nose was now in Mrs. Hughes’ skirt. He could smell her hand lotion, a soft creamy scent that was lightly floral. 

“I’ll see what I can do.” He mumbled into her thigh. 

 

Dinner was served late that night, as Mrs. Hughes and Thomas waited for Mr. Carson to come home. While they waited, Thomas started his first sketch, as Mrs. Hughes put a few things on the table for him to practice with. He tried his hand a coffee mug, and then a fancy porcelain kettle. She cut up an apple for him to eat, and he sketched that too before taking a break to have a snack. As he sketched, Thomas likewise made a list on his sketch-paper of things around the house that needed to be done- things that he could do which Mrs. Hughes probably could not. 

First of all, the roof really had to be repaired. The shingles were weak and rotting- they wouldn’t last through the upcoming summer rains. There was also a pile of wood in the back yard where Mr. Carson had been looking to build a shed- Thomas could do that too. The basement needed to be cleaned, the windows needed to be replaced, and Mrs. Hughes cotton garden needed to be boxed and sealed so that wildlife couldn’t take away all her hard work. 

Thomas toddled out the back door, curious to look at the pile of wood Mr. Carson had set aside for his prospective shed. The light was fading fast, but Thomas could still get a bit of work done on it. He sorted the wood into piles by size, and then (despite his weak hands) Began to prepare the ground work for the shed. He’d made it rectangle- five by six feet. That seemed best… 

So engrossed was he in his work, that when Mr. Carson finally came home, Thomas was still outside, laying the foundations for the floor of the shed. 

“What on earth is Thomas doing?” Mr. Carson demanded, watching from the backdoor of the kitchen while Mrs. Hughes began to dish their stew into deep ceramic bowls. 

“I couldn’t tell you.” She said gayly, “But he was having so much fun I just let him keep at it.” 

Mr. Carson snorted, stepping out into the backyard to get a closer look. 

Thomas paused as he saw Mr. Carson approaching, straightening up to wipe the dirt from his hands. 

“What are you doing?” Mr. Carson demanded. 

“I’m building you a shed.” Thomas shrugged, gesturing at the neatly laid wood piles. 

“… But there’s no mess.” Mr. Carson said, looking left and right as if expecting to find some pile of sawdust hiding behind a shrub or kicked out of sight. 

“Why would I make a mess?” Thomas wondered. Mr. Carson did not deem that question with an answer. “I need a hammer and some nails- and a saw. Do you have those?” 

“Get back inside.” He commanded in a gentle grumble, “As if I would allow you to go near a hammer in your state.” 

“But what could I do with a hammer? Hit myself in the head?” 

“I shouldn’t like to think on it.” 

Back inside the kitchen, Thomas and Mr. Carson had to carefully toe their way around Mrs. Hughes in the tight quarters while she prepared their dinners. Thomas cleared way his things from the kitchen table, still utterly delighted with himself for having a sketchpad now. His hands were nasty and needed to be washed, so he bargained for room with Mrs. Hughes while Mr. Carson relaxed at the kitchen table to pull loosely at his tie. Despite it beginning to snow outside, Mr. Carson was sweating from his long walk and clearly ready to get off of his feet and out of his butler’s uniform. 

“A love letter from your Romeo.” Mr. Carson sneered, taking out two letters from his breast pocket and sliding them across the table to where Thomas was putting away his sketchbook. “Who at this moment is turning more into a Tibalt!” 

“Oh be kind.” Mrs. Hughes urged, tutting as she poured Mr. Carson a small glass of his favorite port, “Have your port.” 

“He had the audacity to invite a guest to the house today without the permission of his lordship! His brother is coming tomorrow, that monkey who lives in a garage.” Mr. Carson snorted, sipping mildly as Thomas took up Tom’s letter slowly to observe his name written in large galavant letters. “He’s been making a scene ever since, drinking and carrying on- refusing meals!” 

“… I’ll write to him about it.” Thomas murmured, for how could he not? Poor poor Tom… he didn’t deserve any of this- he must be in a horrible state. He might have even heard about yesterday- god that would have upset him so much after he’d made Thomas promise not to commit suicide again. Oh Tom… Thomas chewed on his bottom lip deep in thought. 

“See that you do.” Mr. Carson grumbled, finishing his port and smacking his lips in light appreciation. “That second letter is from Daisy, who apparently misses you fiercely though I couldn’t say why.” 

Thomas flipped over Tom’s letter to see Daisy’s underneath, in a much more feminine and petite handwriting well carved from long hours of studying with Mr. Moseley. He sat down across the table from Mr. Carson, intent on opening his letters and reading them at once, but before he could Mrs. Hughes brought out their stew and he was forced to concede momentary pause until after dinner was consumed. 

It was absolutely bizarre to eat with Mr. Carson in full livery while Thomas was barely out of pajamas and Mrs. Hughes was in day clothes. Each of them looked like they belonged in different scenes, but here they were clustered around the same table. They dined on a hearty beef stew full of vegetables and a savory broth, with buttered bread and a simple salad in a vinaigrette dressing. After yesterday, Thomas was starving, and scarfed his meal down while Mr. Carson had a second glass of port and Mrs. Hughes cut their bread. 

“Are you feeling yourself, today?” Mr. Carson asked. Thomas was amazed at the warmth in his voice. Usually it was Mrs. Hughes who received such generous tones. 

“I…” Thomas glanced down at his bandaged arms, trying to judge his emotional state. He felt oddly calm- weirdly centered. Woozy, yes, but calm, and he knew it had to be the medication. “I think so. Sometimes I’m unsure. The medicine makes me confused.” 

“Well, you’re not to take it unless you need it.” Mrs. Hughes said, giving him a fresh slice of hot buttered bread. He tore it into small pieces, dunking it into the broth of his soup as he ate. 

“Best let Mrs. Hughes be in charge of it.” Mr. Carson added. 

“I think you’re doing better!” She agreed, tilting her head to get a better look at his face, “You’ve more color in your face! My goodness you’re actually starting to look a bit human.” 

Thomas grinned around a mouthful of bread and stew. Mr. Carson chortled at the joke. 

 

After dinner, Mrs. Hughes put up the leftovers while Mr. Carson stepped out of his livery. Thomas attempted to help Mrs. Hughes in any way that he could, but she simply wouldn’t allow it. She instead gave him a bowl of thickened cream, sweetened with bits of sugar and fruit. At the kitchen table, Thomas sucked delicately on his spoon and read Tom’s letter first, then Daisy’s. 

It was difficult not to hear Tom’s voice in his head the entire time. 

_“My Lagan Love,_

_When I heard of the news on Wednesday, I felt my heart grow still. How can I explain to you the grief I felt when I realized I could not comfort you? That there was a wall between us neither had put there? I wept all day and night, frightened for you. I wanted to rush to your side and tell you how much you were loved. Dr. Kinsey came by the house to sleep, and mentioned that you needed calm more than me. I disagree. Whatever this is, it isn’t calm. It’s war. Silent, ugly, English war. Bertie will be here tomorrow, as will Kieran. My brother is here to help me protect my rights to Sybbie as her father. Bertie is our ally. We will wage war back and see who gives first. Remember, my darling, love can never be wrong. What I do I do for you. I fight for you. You are not forgotten, you are not suffering alone. I will break down every wall they put up; we will be together again.”_

Thomas paused, chewing a bit on his bottom lip. It felt like Tom was growing angry- even through text Thomas had a sense of premonition about it all. What would Tom do if they could not be together again? If the war was won by the other side? How would he react? How would he carry on? It was difficult to know the answer, even for himself. 

_“I beg of you, as we go through this difficult time, think of me and our love to keep from harming yourself again. Remember, you are so deeply ingrained into me that as we live we live together. As we die, so the same. I promise you even when you feel alone, you are not. I am with you always.”_

Tom’s signature was most peculiar. Instead of writing his name, Tom had taken his thumb and laced it with ink so that the grooves of his flesh were perfectly imparted onto the paper. It was like a personal crest, more honorable and intense than any granite monolith Thomas had seen in his life of serving the upper class. Tom’s fingers had brushed his flesh, cared for him greatly and adored him even in moments of absolute despair. 

Thomas brought the page up to his lips and touched the ink print to his flesh. He did not kiss it, merely brushed it, as if to have the black come off of his skin. But the ink had long since dried and there was no point in trying to wet it again. 

 

“What does Mr. Branson, say?” Mrs. Hughes asked from the sink. She dried off plate after plate, stacking them in a neat pile on the counter. 

“He’s angry at the world.” Thomas murmured “And everyone in it.”   
Thomas folded his letter and placed it inside his shirt next to his heart. With every beat, his skin warmed the paper. 

“Best try and sooth him.” Mrs. Hughes said, “Don’t fan that flame any hotter.” 

Thomas doubted he’d have to try anyway. 

 

Daisy’s letter was much less angry, a sweet short note in cursive that made Thomas smile (though he still felt slightly bitter). He ate bite after bite of sweet cream, sucking on his spoon. 

_“Dear Thomas,_

_I heard of your awful news from Mr. Carson- I overheard him talking about it with Mrs. Patmore. I know you must be feeling wretched right now, I’m ever so sorry! Please know that none of us blame you or think poorly of you. You should hear the ruckus in your name! Mrs. Patmore is so angry at Mr. Branson, I think she’s going to try and poison him.”_

Thomas snorted, unable to stop himself. 

_“He’s bringing in his brother from Liverpool tomorrow, but I guess you must already know that. I wonder what he will say? Lady Edith and Lord Hexam are coming back too. We’re going to make goose, and bathe it in a rosemary sauce. I’m excited because when we make goose, we pluck the feathers. I like to keep them and make pretty things with them. I heard that the upstairs have goose feathers in their pillows. Maybe if I pluck enough I can have a goose feather pillow too!”_

Thomas rubbed his brow, slightly wishing Daisy would hurry it the hell up with all her goose feather nonsense. 

_“Please try and get better soon. I heard Mr. Carson tell Mrs. Patmore that Dr. Kinsey gave you some medicine to help you feel better. Remember to take it every night! I once stopped taking a tonic because I felt better but then I just got worse again and was in bed for two days. Mrs. Patmore was so angry at me that she didn’t forgive me for a week. I also heard you’re helping Mrs. Hughes plant her garden. See if you can get her to plant artichokes? I’ve always wanted to try one but of course we never get them below stairs._

_Best wishes and sympathies,_   
_Daisy Mason”_

 

Beneath this lay a set of different handwriting, a post script from another’s hand. 

_“I love you with all my heart. Please love yourself- P. Baxter”_

Thomas pursed his lips, somehow feeling more guilty than warmed in that moment. Like Baxter didn’t have enough problems as it was. 

 

Mr. Carson came back downstairs and took up his place by the fire in his favorite armchair. Mrs. Hughes sat with him on the couch, working on her cross stitch; Thomas brought over his sketchpad and letters, camping on the far end of the couch as the fire dwindled warm in the hearth. Mr. Carson read the paper, his shoes off. Every so often he would scratch the mound of his stomach or lick his thumb to turn the next page. The soft noise of thread pulling through cloth lulled Thomas as he began to sketch once more. He’d never drawn a human figure before but decided to do so now, focusing on Mr. Carson for his study. Hew would have used Mrs. Hughes, but she kept moving as she worked on her cross stitch. 

It was difficult to draw people. Mr. Carson was an enormous figure, and from time to time as he drew Mr. Carson, Thomas almost felt like he was making him too fat or too tall. Like he was somehow being insulting without meaning to. Art was a precious, personal thing. He tried to focus on how Mr. Carson’s hands held the paper- they were almost like squares despite having very obvious curves. 

“What do you plan to do tomorrow, Thomas?” Mr. Carson spoke up as he began to read the classifieds. 

“I thought I might finish your shed.” Thomas admitted, for the lingering project was pestering him despite the late hour. 

“You can find the tools you need in the basement.” Mr. Carson said, turning another page in his paper. “—What are you scribbling at?” 

“Nothing.” Thomas mumbled, slightly unsure how to best explain that he was, in fact, drawing Mr. Carson. He had a feeling that if Mr. Carson saw, he would be very irritated. “Just some rubbish.” 

Mr. Carson must have noted the guilty tone in his voice, and narrowed his eyes. He set his paper down atop his stomach and reached out his hand presumably for Thomas’ sketch pad. 

Thomas knew Mr. Carson would take it as a sign of mistrust if he did not hand over the sketchpad, and so he did so with slight reluctance. 

Mr. Carson took the sketchpad and carefully observed it, turning it around to view it by the light of the dying fire. Thomas pursed his lips, waiting for Mr. Carson to start railing, but instead of growing agitated Mr. Caron merely nodded and handed the sketchpad back. Thomas took it, holding it quite close to his chest as if it were made of gold and silver instead of leather and paper. 

“You’re quite talented, Thomas.” Mr. Carson mused, “You could have been an artist.” 

“No, I couldn’t have been.” Thomas shrugged, for how could someone of his background have ever been allowed to do something as frivolous as art? “That wasn’t my path.” 

“It seldom is.” Mr. Carson agreed, for art was for the fortunate. “But it makes you happy… so I suppose that’s what matters.” 

But when was that ever what mattered?   
Take Mr. Carson for example. 

The low key secret of the downstairs staff was that Mr. Carson had once been in the theatre. The idea of Mr. Carson tap dancing his way across a stage was rather hysterical at first, but then trouble after a second thought. Mr. Carson lived such a restricted life, guarded by rules and prestigious order. The theatre had no place in it- it couldn’t thrive with barriers and cold facts. How had Mr. Carson been able to adapt to working at Downton? Why had he given up his love for theatre if he believed that the fact of something making you happy was most important? Was he truly happier working at Downton than he had been in the theatre? That didn’t seem likely. 

“…Mr. Carson.” Thomas spoke up, voice soft lest Mr. Carson think him impertinent. Carson looked up from his paper, calm and content. “If you don’t mind me asking, why did you leave the theatre?” 

This caught even Mrs. Hughes attention, for she put down her cross stitch and waited to hear Mr. Carson’s answer. Mr. Carson looked slightly annoyed at first, which didn’t surprise Thomas as Mr. Carson was always annoyed at him in some way or another. He seemed to realize that he couldn’t get out of answering the question though, and shrugged as he took back up his paper. 

“My father required me.” Mr. Carson grumbled, turning to the back page to read the ads, “He was Lord Grantham’s groomsman in the time of his grandfather. It was my duty to return to him, and to help him in his craft. His… hands.” Mr. Carson tilted his head, glaring at his own thick fingers which slowly shook around the edges. “Well, as I say.” He corrected his grip on the paper with the flick of a wrist, “It ended his career. I had to take up the reigns.” 

“Quite literally.” Thomas added, trying to imagine Mr. Carson as a groomsman. It wasn’t a very good image. 

“Oh no-“ for whatever reason, Mr. Carson chortled. “I wasn’t the groomsman. I was a junior footman. But I earned in his place for my mother.” 

Thomas wondered what that was like, having to work with your father right over your shoulder. Thomas had helped out in his father’s clock shop, but to imagine having his father over his shoulder while he was a footman too? 

The thought made him nauseas. 

“Did he like it?” Thomas mumbled, swallowing around the acid in his throat, “You being back?” 

Mr. Carson snorted, “He spent the first month cursing my existence. And the next six years thanking me for it.” He added irritably. Thomas looked down at his sketchpad, carefully brushing away dark dust from a line of charcoal. “I suppose your own father had something to say about you too?” 

Thomas winced.   
An image flashed through the back of his head, of his father crushing his fist into Thomas’ face. Irritated, Thomas rubbed at his brow and scribbled nonsensical lines upon his pad. 

“I left home when I was fourteen.” He admitted, irritated, “Me da found me… different. Had no use for me. After I left home I just wanted to find a home again.” Thomas sighed, turning a page in his sketchbook. He wanted to give a try at flowers, “Never did, though.” 

“A fine thing to say when you’re the butler of Downton Abbey.” Mr. Carson grumbled. 

Oh yeah, he was the butler of Downton Abbey. That was why he was in his pajama’s on someone else’s couch with bandaged wrists and medication in his pocket. 

“I’m not, Mr. Carson.” Thomas reminded him. “I’m just your replacement, at most. Not even your permanent replacement.” 

Carson put down his paper again, this time folding and finishing it to set it aside. 

“You’re much more than that.” Mr. Carson said. “You’re my successor. The only one I trust with the house. That is no small compliment.”

Thomas paused, pencil mid-way through sketching a flower petal. He glanced up and caught Mr. Carson’s eyes. 

This was the first time in fifteen years that Mr. Carson had ever complimented him and Thomas wasn’t too sure how to take it. 

What did one say when one got what they wanted? Did they acknowledge it? Or did they accept it with humility and never ask for more? 

But Thomas was a masochist. “How can you trust me?” Thomas asked. “After all I was to you?” 

A fiend, a pervert, a bastard- every marble in solid thought- 

“The same way any parent trusts their child.” Mr. Carson mused, lacing his fingers atop his stomach, “They instinctively know there is goodness within, and they bank on it.” 

“But I’m not your child.” Thomas replied, “And there was a time when you didn’t believe there was a drop of goodness to be found in me.” 

“Well I was wrong.” Mr. Carson admitted with a small grain of humility. “And you’re as good as my child… I practically raised you alongside the other footmen.” 

Thomas thought of William, Alfred, and Andy- all of whom Mr. Carson had preferred over him. William in particular had been the golden boy, but there had been one detail of William’s countenance which had not gone in his favor towards Mr. Carson. 

William had known nothing about Shakespeare. Had thought it too upper-class to enquire about. 

“…William didn’t know who Horatio was.” Thomas said in jest. Mr. Carson snorted at the memory of older times, lacing his fingers together atop his enormous belly. 

“Oh I’m well aware.” Mr. Carson said. Mrs. Hughes smiled forlornly at them, “He talked of nothing else for a week. He thought Daisy was bound for yet another man. It took me a while to explain that he was a character in a play.” He paused, glancing at Thomas with some amount of pride. “You know, I played Horatio once.” 

Eager to keep there little dialogue going, Thomas tempted Mr. Carson with a wicked smile: “Love looks not in the eyes, but in the minds, and therefore is winged Cupid painted blind.” 

Mr. Carson quirked a bushy eyebrow, “A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Act one, scene one.” 

Thomas shrugged, “To be or not to be-“ 

“Hamlet, act three scene one- at least challenge me, Thomas!” Mr. Carson grumbled, growing agitated. 

Thomas set down his sketchpad, putting it aside.   
Alright, he wanted a challenge at this game? Thomas was a raving homosexual with no outlet for his desires and a massive library full of classics to purge on. He could offer a challenge. 

“Blow, blow, thou winter wind!” Thomas snapped, straightening up at the end of the couch, “Thou art not so unkind as man’s ingratitude!” 

“As You Like It.” Mr. Carson said, “Act two scene seven. Now is the winter of our discontent.” 

Oh for gods sake, “King Richard the Third, act one scene one.” Thomas parried. 

“Tempt not a desperate man-“ Mr. Carson warned. 

“Romeo and Juliet, act five scene three- as Romeo descends into Juliet’s tomb to drink his poison and die in her arms.” 

“Ah, but love is blind, and lovers cannot see!” Mr. Carson grinned, wagging his finger as if to scold Thomas for being naughty. 

“The Merchant of Venice!” 

“The miserable have no other medicine, but only hope!” 

“Measure for Measure.” 

“And the better part of valor is?” 

“Discretion!” Thomas cried out, almost feeling like he was winning prizes now for his accuracy. Mr. Carson was downright beaming, glad to finally have company that prized theatre like he did. “King Henry the fourth!” 

“Ah, but which part?” Mr. Carson offered. Thomas thought it through, brow furrowed. 

“Part…. one!” He cried out, his memory jogged. Mr. Carson clapped his hand once in spark of delight. 

“That’s the ticket.” He praised, and Thomas flushed with sudden pride. “Suspicion always haunts?” 

“-Um…” Thomas mumbled, thinking back through all the texts he’d read. For some reason Thomas had a feeling this quote would lead him to shrubbery though he couldn’t say why. 

“Oh Thomas.” Mr. Carson chided, “You of all people should know this-“ 

“The… guilty mind!” Thomas struggled, Mr. Carson egging him on with every bob of the head, “The thief doth fear every… every…” 

Why the hell was he thinking about shrubbery? 

“Every bush an officer.” Mr. Carson finished.   
Bush. A fucking bush. 

Thomas cursed internally, rubbing at his brow. 

“What play is that?” He muttered, wracking his brains for the answer. 

“I don’t know, Thomas.” Mr. Carson replied with just the slightest touch of sarcasm, “What play is that?” 

“… Um…” It had been a history play- “King Henry.” 

“Very good.” Mr. Carson nodded, “But which party, and which Henry?” 

Dear god there had been a few Henry’s. “Henry the fourth. Part…” He fished in the dark, “Three?” 

Mr. Carson grinned, bemused, “Which act?” 

“Mr. Carson.” Mrs. Hughes chided him from the couch. To amuse his wife, Mr. Carson answered his own question and let Thomas off the hook. 

“Act five, scene six.” 

Determined to win the game, Thomas started lobbing quotes of his own, “Of all base passions, fear is the most accursed.” 

“King Henry the fourth-“ Mr. Carson started, but with the slip up Thomas let out a cry of delight!

“No!” Thomas cried, pointing an accusatory hand at Mr. Carson. It had not been Henry the fourth! It had been Henry the sixth! 

“I meant the sixth!” Mr. Carson quickly tried to amend the error but it was too late in Thomas’ eyes. 

“Ah ah!” Thomas shook his head, “You said the fourth first. You got it wrong. I win.” He crossed his arms smugly over his chest. 

“Oh, were we playing a game then?” Mr. Carson teased, leaning heavily on the arm of his chair so that the wood and cloth squeaked in protest. “Very well then. Julius Caesar. Act two, scene two. One of the most pivotal scenes of the play. What wise words were uttered to whom, by whom?” 

“Oh my goodness you two.” Mrs. Hughes muttered as she pulled a coral thread through her cross stitch, “You’re making my head spin.” 

But Thomas’ head was far from spun. He knew the answer to this question: “Caesar to Calpurnia.” 

Mr. Carson was already smiling. 

“Cowards die many times before their deaths; the valiant never taste of death but once.” 

To this, Mr. Carson added, “Of all the wonders that I yet have heard-“ Thomas mouthed the words along with him, knowing them line for line, “it seems to me most strange that men should fear; seeing that death, a necessary end, will come when it will come.” 

“…Fair is foul and foul is fair?” Mrs. Hughes tried, in an attempt to play the game. 

“Macbeth.” Thomas and Carson spoke over one another, “Act one scene one-“ 

“Heavens.” She muttered, going back to her cross-stitch, “I’ve been put in my place.” 

“How sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is to have a thankless child.” Thomas said to keep the game going. 

“King Lear.” Mr. Carson said, “Act one scene four.” 

“I suppose that’s what you reckoned me to at times?”   
“I did not know your heart well enough to judge it properly.” 

“So you just decided I didn’t have one.” Thomas shrugged; in a way it made sense. The simplest solution is often the most accurate one. Can’t find a heart? Must not have a heart. “Better than my own father, I suppose. He knew I had one, he just didn’t care.” 

How could he not have known when he’d raised Thomas- watched him grow from an infant that clung to his mother’s skirts, to a young boy who wept for a sketchpad. 

“It is a fool who casts off his child into the storm of man.” Mr. Carson said. When Thomas did not automatically make to name the play, act, or scene, Mrs. Hughes glanced up from her cross stitch to look for the answer herself. 

“What play is that?” She wondered. 

“Charles Carson.” Thomas said, for though Mr. Carson’s words had been sagely and wise they certainly hadn’t come from Shakespeare, “That was him, not a play.” 

But Thomas was tired of this game. He was tired of having to think about his father or his past when both only brought him pain. It had taken him thirty five years to get a sketchpad, and the thought brought him great bitterness as he fingered the new black leather. He rose up from the couch, holding his sketchpad close, and crossed the living room floor to head through the kitchen and out onto the back stoop. It was cold outside, and pitch black. The only light came from the moon, and it was abysmally poor with clouds overcast. The snow was momentarily stalled, but Thomas had a feeling before the night was over there would be a few more inches on the ground. He sat down on the steps and opened his sketchpad again, staring out at the back garden. Perhaps he’d draw the flowers here, come spring. 

The back door opened again, and Thomas looked up to see Mr. Carson looming over him. His rotund belly was almost like an umbrella for Thomas where he sat. 

Mr. Carson had trouble sitting down on the stoop- he was a large man and the space was small. Still he managed it, and suddenly for the first time in both their lives the pair of them were side by side, thigh to thigh, quite alone in the dark. Mr. Carson looked out across the garden, observing Mrs. Hughes’ hard work. They would eat well, come fall. 

“What gone and what’s past help should be past grief.” Mr. Carson tried to start the game again. 

“… I don’t want to play anymore, Mr. Carson.” Thomas murmured. What was gone and past was never past grief for him. That was his whole problem- 

“What play?” Mr. Carson grumbled, unwilling to give it up. 

“….The Winter’s Tale.” Thomas said, knowing full well if he didn’t comply he’d get grumbled at for a week straight. “And everyone can master a grief but he that has it.” 

“Much Ado About Nothing.” Mr. Carson scoffed, “How did I know you’d bring up that nonsensical play…” 

But he glanced at Thomas, eyeing him up and down as if truly seeing him for the first time. Thomas imagined he must look immensely different, in pajamas with softened hair and bandaged forearms. 

“You are the stuff of dreams.” Mr. Carson declared, “Rounded with little sleep.” 

“The Tempest.” Thomas replied. Was it odd that it had almost sounded like a compliment to be called ‘rounded with little sleep’? “What I am is miserable.” He corrected, “I was born miserable.” He wondered if in the womb he’d cried. If his mother’s fluids hadn’t been blood but tears coursing through his veins. 

“The miserable have no other medicine but hope-“ Mr. Carson tried, but Thomas was unwilling to play the game anymore. Even Shakespeare would be clueless to his conundrum, he was certain. 

“Hope for what?” He demanded, for when had hope ever done his lot any good, “A father that understands and loves me? I could at least hope for something attainable, like a nice car.” 

“But do you need a nice car?” Mr. Carson asked. Thomas winced at the unnerving accuracy. 

“No.” He said, and put his chin on his knees to warm his arms about his lower legs. 

“Was your father so deplorable?” Mr. Carson asked, relaxing a bit against the wood of the stoop. “Or can you admit that you might have been a handful as a child?” 

That was difficult to say. 

Thomas had now successfully cared for children, and what he’d found was that every child in their own way. Sybbie often needed to be held despite being the oldest. Marigold never shut up, god bless her- and William was a screamer too. George was the most difficult, because George needed the most attention. If Thomas didn’t give George enough attention, George took it out on the girls by being sulky and too rough in play time. 

But just because they were difficult to handle didn’t mean Thomas had a right to smack them or tell them they were wastes of space. Thomas’ father had done both. 

“If your child was a handful, Mr Carson, what would you do?” Thomas asked. 

“I should think you already know the answer to that question.” Mr. Carson grumbled.   
So he’d be an absolute curmudgeon and make them wish they were dead. Excellent to know. 

Mr. Carson sighed, seeming to realize where Thomas’ train of thought had taken him. 

“I never had the opportunity to have children.” Mr. Carson admitted, “I suppose I would have been slightly different with a child that was actually my own. At best I had Lady Mary, whom I have always been fond of. The family is my family, that is how I have always viewed it.” 

“I guess I understand.” Thomas shrugged. He was just as guilty when it came to the children. “God only knows I look on Sybbie and George like my own. Even little Marigold though I think she’s probably forgotten me by now.” 

“You’d be amazed.” Mr. Carson stretched a bit, leaning back against the rickety wooden steps of the back door, “Children seldom forget those that love them.” 

“Then why do I remember my parents?” 

“Because you loved them.” Mr. Carson spoke in a soft tone, the kind he usually reserved for Lady Mary when she needed consoling. It was an incredible moment for Thomas, who had never known kindness from an older man. 

Snow started to fall again, soft and light in the air. With each flake, the garden became covered in a blanket until there were no details to be discerned beyond the slightest mound or dip. Thomas’ breath came out in a fog, as did Mr. Carson’s. Neither of them made to return inside. 

“Shall I tell you a secret, Mr. Carson?” Thomas asked in a puff of white air. 

“I shudder to imagine what it is.” Mr. Carson said, his tone taking on just an edge of sarcasm. Thomas did not take it personally. 

Thomas gave into the memory on the back of his mind, using words to flesh it out. “I told my father what I was, and he tried to kill me.” 

_A raining of fists, a boot to his neck- again, again, again!_

_“Da, stop!” Thomas had howled, blood pouring from his mouth. With each kick and punch, he came closer to death. “DA, STOP!"_

_But he hadn’t stopped._   
_He hadn’t stopped until Thomas had rolled away and run for his life, hobbling on a sprained ankle and a bruised leg._

“I had to hide in the woods for three days until he stopped looking for me.” Thomas said, for even as he’d fled his father had followed him, drunk and raving. 

_“Get back here, you lavender slut!” his father had screamed at the top of his voice. “I know what you are! I know what you are!”_

“He said if he ever saw me-“ _“I’ll kill you!! D’you understand?! I ever see you again, I’ll kill you!! I’ll kill you!!”_

Thomas repeated his father’s words, then fell silent. He thought on how he’d seen Mr. Carson without eyes. How the vision of Mr. Carson drowning him had been more terrifying than anything else in his life. Why? 

Because of the comparison to that day. Because of the horror Thomas had felt when he’d realized that yet another father figure wanted to kill him. 

“Would you ever kill me, Mr. Carson?” Thomas asked, staring out across the garden. It was like he was inhabiting a purgatory without landscape or definition. Only white and black. “Have you ever wanted to kill me?” 

Mr. Carson said nothing, stiffened at the confronted knowledge of what Thomas’ father had really been like. Once he’d made rather the same comment, that Thomas ought to be horsewhipped. But then he’d never picked up a horsewhip and actually chased him out of the abbey. Instead he’d just grumbled and griped— but Carson had always grumbled and griped. If anything he’d just done it louder. 

Mr. Carson shrugged off his outer jacket, perhaps slightly hot despite being out in the snow. 

Thomas felt a touch on his shoulders and jumped.   
Mr. Carson had put his jacket around him. He felt warm, and protected from the cold. 

Mr. Carson rose up, so that Thomas was eye level with his kneecaps. He craned his neck, blinking owlishly into the face of a man who had at times frightened him more than his own father. Now, Mr. Carson didn’t scare him at all.

“I never wanted to kill you.” Mr. Carson finally said, looking out over the garden and into the night. Somewhere, far off into the distance, an owl was hooting. “At most, I only wanted you gone. I’m an Englishman, I don’t have it in me to feel great emotion. Even if I did, I doubt I’d use it well.” 

Mr. Carson turned away, opening back up the door to the kitchen so that warm air could roll out and onto the lawn. Thomas shuddered at the change in temperature. 

“Come back in soon.” Mr. Carson said, stepping up and into the house, “It’s cold out.”   
And with that, he left Thomas alone. 

Thomas pulled Mr. Carson’s jacket tighter to his shoulders. He could smell the spice of Mr. Carson’s aftershave at the nape of the neck. He inhaled deeply, simply wondering about the man. 

They weren’t friends. They’d never had a chance to be friends. They’d jumped right from enemies to something …not enemies. 

He supposed ‘family’ was the best word to fit it.   
Thomas wrapped Mr. Carson’s jacket tightly around him and buried his head into his knees. 

Like a child, he hid from the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading. Please feel free to review if you have concerns of questions!


	18. Aint No Good

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas cleans a basement.  
> Sybbie goes to bed without a bath.  
> Bertie dines on corn beef sandwiches.  
> Kieran hates the English.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just as a warning, this chapter will allude to **graphic descriptions of physical violence to self and prior death**
> 
> Yeehaw, another chapter full of fighting, conundrums, and characters desperately trying to make sense of the world around them. I do hope you like it. This fanfiction has about 25 chapters in it, just so people know. We're getting slightly close to the end, isn't that shocking? Yes. I have decided there will be a sequel, but I also have another epic work I want to start.

Friday morning, Tom sat outside the abby on the stoop and waited for his brother. 

In his hands, he held a letter from Thomas: 

_“Danny Boy,_

_I don’t know what to say about Wednesday. I think it all became too much. I’m unsure. Everything was so confusing- I could have sworn I saw my mother sitting in the Carson’s bathtub, angry at me for not attempting suicide. Can you imagine such a thing? But I saw it. She even tried to chase me about the house and I hid underneath their bed. I feel like such a fool now. Dr. Kinsey has given me a medication, a type of smelling salt I think. I’m supposed to inhale it on a cloth if I start to spiral again. I feel like a ninny, having to carry around smelling salts in my pocket. Mrs. Hughes has designated herself my care giver. Just put me in a corset and be done with it.”_

Those were dangerous words in Tom’s hands. He already had a fantasy going about Thomas in women’s knickers. Slap a corset on him and Tom would officially have a fever in his brain. 

A black corset with little blue lace strands-  
_Get your mind out of the gutter-!_ Tom chastised himself. 

_“I know you’re angry, love. I’m angry too. I’m very angry at the world for being so unkind to people like us, but that’s just the way things are. I warned you about this that night in the garage, don’t you remember? I warned you what might happen. Please do not take your anger out on the family, in particular Lord Grantham. He has been incredibly generous during all of this, even if you don’t realize this. He has not called the police nor kicked me out permanently. He has not forbidden you from seeing Sybbie. Do you not see what a blessing that is? I’m nervous about Kieran coming to visit. Please don’t let him be cruel to the family. That will not soften your pillow, only deepen your grave. Likewise, is it good for you to rouse up Lady Edith and Lady Mary against one another? They’re only just trying to move past their anger. Please Tom. Act with caution. Act with kindness. Think of what you’re mother would say. Think of what Mrs. Hughes would say.”_ Tom sighed, certain Mrs. Hughes was close to putting a bullet in his brain at this point. 

_“I’m so sorry I let you down and hurt myself. I will try not to do it again. I was scared. I think you know the feeling._

 

 _All my love_  
_an English flower.”_

But the sound of horse bells jingling in the air cause Tom to pause, and he looked up to see an estate farmer making his way up the gravel drive. Tom rose, heart pounding at the person sitting next to the farmer, a newsboy cap tipped to the side and mustache fluttering in the cold early spring wind. Kieran. 

Tom pocket his letter from Thomas at once, a smile breaking out in spite of himself. He all but leapt off the stoop- he hadn’t seen Kieran since Sybbie’s birth! 

“Kieran!” Tom cried out, overjoyed. Kieran grinned at him, tipping his newsboy cap as the farmer pulled the cart in a wide circle to let Kieran out front. 

“Tom!” Kieran clambered down out of the front bench, wearing a tawny suit frayed from travel and misuse- he grasped Tom tight and drew him in for a painfully tight hug. Tom felt like he was being sucked into a void of warmth, and buried his face in his older brother’s neck. 

They broke off their embrace, grinning like fools as Kieran tipped his hat to the farmer who’d driven him to the abbey. Tom took Kieran’s valise from the dusty floor of the cart. 

“Thank ye, Aaron.” Kieran shook hands with the man, “Yer a kind man.” 

“Obliged to you, Mr. Branson.” Aaron said as Kieran handed him a throppin for his kindness, “Ta very much. Seeing this house up close was a treat. I’ll be back for you at ten.” 

Kieran patted the rump of Aaron’s horse, a draft puller with a dusty black coat, and smacked it hard so that the horse could take off back on the trail. He turned, and embraced Tom again, this time with a more lingering touch than before. 

“Tommy look at you,” Kieran declared as they broke apart again, gripping at each other’s shoulders like fools, “With a face like a cat’s arsehole.” 

“Come inside,” Tom urged, taking up Kieran’s valise; Kieran smacked him hard in the middle of the back with affection, “I want to tell you everything.” 

“Aye you better, ‘for our father’s spirit chases us both to hell.” Kieran sneered. 

The pair of them broached the stairs, kicking the snow and mud off their boots- but paused as Robert came to the door with Mr. Carson. They stood barring the way the the Abbey, the master and his servant side by side. 

Tom slowed up, noting the way they both glared at Kieran like he were a problem and not a solution. Tom took a slightly defensive step in front of his older brother, bitter at how they already marked him for a threat instead of allowing him to make his case. 

Then again, maybe they were remembering how Kieran had turned Sybbie catholic.  
Oh the woes of being protestant. 

“Mr. Branson.” Robert said, tipping his head to the side by way of greeting. 

“Lord Grantham.” Kieran pursed his lips, “Mr..ehh….” He looked at Carson with narrowed eyes. “Curtis?” 

“Carson.” Tom corrected him. 

“The butler.” Kieran added. 

“Correct.” Tom said. Mr. Carson’s nostrils flared. 

“The maids have made up a room for you in the bachelor’s corridor.” Robert offered, turning away so that all four of them could walk into the entrance hall together. Kieran took the abbey in, from it’s illustrious grandeur to his splendor of wealth. He looked decidedly uncomfortable in that moment. 

“Eh- that’s unnecessary.” Kierna grumbled, “I’ll be stayin at the pub. Aaron Cartwhick is comin’ back for me at ten.” He broached the gallery steps, unnerved by the massive portrait hanging on the landing of a late Grantham and his pack of hounds. “I don’t think I can sleep in a house like this to be honest. Too big. I feel like there are eyes on me everywhere.” 

“It’s the paintings.” Tom assured him, for he’d had the same feeling to when he’d started sleeping upstairs at first. “You get used to it. Come with me and we can talk in private in my room.” 

It was slightly unorthodox, but it offered more familiarity and comfort than the small library which Tom had a feeling would put Kieran off. Their kind didn’t have small libraries in their homes. If they wanted to have it out, they took it to somewhere private. How many arguments hand their parents hand in the bathroom of their quaint Irish home? Tom could remember having to piss in a bush because his mam had been snapping at his father for something silly or another. 

Kieran had once made a joke that his father had taken it to the bathroom because if he shit his pants from fear of their mother he didn’t have far to go. Their mam had smacked him on the back of the head for that. 

So upstairs they went, side by side, leaving Carson and Robert at the bottom of the stairs both decidedly miffed. AS they reached the top of the gallery floor, Tom took his brother at once to his room before Henry or Mary could cross them in the hall and present yet another argument. They didn’t have long before Bertie and Edith arrived- and Tom was determined to catch his brother up to speed before the entire argument unfolded. 

Tom’s bedroom was decidedly less grand than the rooms Mary and Edith frequented, equipped with humble oak furniture and a soft quilted coverlet of dark green. As Tom closed the door to his room, Kieran flopped down on the bed and immediately tugged at the knot of his tie to relax. Tom poured his brother a whiskey from his own private stash, and the pair of them toasted one another over their shared miseries. 

And then, Tom told him the entire sorry tale. 

First came the story of how he’d known Thomas from the beginning- how they’d hardly been friends but had become more as Christmas had passed and Tom had seen the other side of Thomas- the wonderful loving side so full of warmth and sweetness. Kieran drank most of his whiskey around the part Tom started telling him about their courtship, and how he’d finally taken Thomas to bed. The idea of his brother buggering someone made Kieran down the rest of his whiskey in one shot and then demand another one, only to drink the whole thing in three gulps. 

“So… he’s at the Carson’s, and you’re here.” Kieran gestured between the pair of them to judge it all up for size, “An; you can’t be with one another or see one another or you’ll lose Sybbie?” 

“That’s about the size of it.” Tom declared. Kieran looked at his empty whiskey glass and set it down on Tom’s bedside table with an irritable smack to rise up and pace across the room towards the lone window which offered a view of the western grounds. Kieran undid the latch, throwing it open to get fresh air in the room. 

“When did you stop bein’ a man?” He wondered aloud. 

“Shuttup!” Tom cried out, “‘For I box you in the nose-“ 

“No, no, you shuttup!” Kieran rounded on him a finger in his face. Tom scowled heavily, irritated by his brother’s constant bad attitude. It was a wonder his wife Eileen had agreed to marry him. “They’re treatin you like a little boy! Oh, you can’t do this! You can’t do that!” Kieran said in a false high pitch voice. “Sit still and be quiet, drink your milk and tie your shoes right-! You’re a man you realize that? What’s actually stopping you from going out the front door? From taking Sybbie and leaving-?” 

“Because I don’t want to hurt the family.” Tom admitted, “Even if they are bein’ bastards-“ 

“Aha!” Kieran cried out, irritated, “There’s nothin’ physically stoppin’ you. It’s just that you’re a ninny and you can’t stand up for your rights!” 

“Would you knock it off?!” Tom demanded, flushed in the face, “I’m trying to find an actual solution.” 

“Here’s a solution!” Kieran sneered, flouncing into Tom’s desk chair which rocked back dangerously- a swivel at its base, “Get your bag! Pack it! Get Sybbie’s bag, pack it ! Go to the Carson’s grab your little lavender, and pack his bag too! Leave! Leave anywhere you want!” 

“Lord Grantham will call the police!” Tom warned, “He’ll say it’s child endangerment.” 

“You’re her father.” Kieran said, irate at the thought of Tom putting Sybbie in danger, “What are you going to endanger her with? A strict bed time and a swat on the arse?” 

“Don’t be a prick.” Tom warned, Thomas’ words hot in his pocket. He couldn’t let Kieran be a prick to the family, it would only make things worse. 

“How am I being a prick?” Kieran demanded, jerking a cigarette from a pack in his pocket and lighting it with a match. He puffed on it as Tom poured him a third whiskey. “Because I’m sayin’ what you don’t want to hear? Do you want to be with Sybbie or not? Well?” He demanded when Tom did not answer straight away. 

His heart pounded in his chest, aching for freedom. “Well?” Kieran snapped. “Do you?” 

So Tom started packing.  
He would only bring one valise, and pack inside of it the mere essentials. Things he couldn’t bear to leave behind- things that he feared he would not be able to get back once he left the house. Clothes, yes, but also a picture of Sybil from their wedding day and her beaded blue Arabian headband from her pantsuit that had so captivated once. 

As he packed, he called for Sybbie, sending a maid to fetch her from her Nanny down the hall. Kieran seemed to be amused that Tom would pack a beaded head band and a photograph.

“Take only what you need.” Kieran urged, “You can send for the rest.” 

“If they let me come back.” Tom warned, for he highly doubted once he’d fled that the family would be willing to negotiate with him further. His heart pounded erratically with his chest, every voice from Thomas’ to Sybil’s urging him to rethink his actions, to not be so haste. But Tom had been born of blood and courage- he knew no other way. 

The door opened, and Tom looked around only to scowl at the sight of Sybbie tugging relentlessly at Nanny Armstrong’s hands. It seemed she would not let her come un- chaperoned even to Tom’s bedroom. 

“Daddy-?” Sybbie looked up, only to let out a wild squeal and rip right from her Nanny’s hand to shriek, “UNCLE KIERAN!” 

“Ta, love!” Kieran laughed gayly, and Sybbie ran across the room to jump up onto Kieran’s lap from where he sat in Tom’s desk chair. They bounced around, Sybbie’s momentum making the chair squeak as Kieran held her close and let her play with the handles of his graying mustache. 

“Oh let me see you, my good girl!” They pulled back only for Kieran to give her what was surely a very whiskery kiss. “My sweet pea!” He kissed her again on both cheeks. It had been a long time since they’d seen one another physically though of course Kieran had sent her birthday presents every year and christmas- not to mention letters of love. “You beautiful thing, you.” Kieran praised glowingly, stroking her brown curls with affection. 

“Sybbie, darling.” The clock was ticking as far as Tom was concerned, “Would you like to go on an adventure with me and Thomas?” 

“Oh yes, please!” Sybbie begged, still bouncing a bit upon Kieran’s knee. She looked positively delighted. “Please I want to see Thomas again!” 

“Nanny Armstrong- pack her valise.” Tom said, noting the way the woman scowled at him, “We’re going to Liverpool. Keep it only the essentials. She doesn’t need everything she owns.” Tom said with slight irritation for he was certain the woman was going to take forever and a day on purpose. 

“Does Lord Grantham know about this-?” Nanny Armstrong asked warily. 

“Excuse me.” Kieran sneered, rising up out of Tom’s desk chair and taking Sybbie with him, “He’s her father! If he wants to take her to Liverpool, then she’s going to Liverpool. Thank you.” 

Nanny Armstrong looked scandalized but did as she was bade, leaving Sybbie alone with Tom and Kieran who doted on her in turn. 

“Christ.” Kieran sneered, “Do you have to have the man’s permission to piss?” 

Tom rolled his eyes but said nothing more. 

They weren’t given very much time alone. Even as Tom finished packing his valise and closed the locks, there came another knock on the door which he opened to reveal Edith. With a shock, Tom realized that Bertie must be here as well- that the time had come for the final argument. 

“Aunt Edith!” Sybbie cried out, delighted, and struggled down from Kieran’s arms to bound across the room and take Edith about the knees. Edith looked healthy, with a glow that Tom hadn’t seen on her before, her hair bound in long loops at the nape of her neck and a dark brown cloche atop her head. She wore a fanciful dress, in umber stripes of deepest orange that flickered in the morning light streaming in through Tom’s open bedroom window. Her coat was oriental in nature, a silk overthrow that hardly offered her any warmth- but upon her left hand sat a glistening wedding band and Tom smiled instinctively as Edith beamed at him. 

Marriage suited her well. 

“Tom-“  
“Edith-!” 

They embraced, Sybbie squashed between them. Tom relaxed a bit into her grip with a soft sigh. As he pulled back, he saw a look of uncertainty in Edith’s eye. 

“Mr. Branson.” Edith said by way of greeting to Kieran, who merely tipped his head but said nothing more. As friendly as Edith could be, Kieran was still not fond of the English. “I heard some to do about a trip to Liverpool, and I had a feeling you would be at the root of it.” 

“How are you?” Tom asked, determined to keep the affection going for as long as possible, “You look well.” 

“Better than I’ve been in years, if I’m honest.” Edith admitted, “How are you? Bertie said you’d spoken on the phone…” She paused, her voice drifting away. “He’s downstairs right now, furious with Mary. They’re about to have it out in the library if you’d wish to join.” 

“I wouldn’t, actually.” Tom admitted, for he had a feeling that the argument downstairs would be his last one. “If you know Bertie and I spoke on the phone, then I suppose you know the rest?” Edith nodded, frowning. She did not look pleased, but she did not look angry either. 

“I’m leaving.” Tom admitted, “Today. My brother and I are taking Sybbie and Thomas to Liverpool.” 

“Not again!” Edith said with slightest desperation, holding Sybbie tighter to her hip, “I thought we were past this!” 

“Thomas was chased from these halls like a plague.” Tom said defensively, “He nearly… had a redo of last summer.” Tom said, for there was no way he was going to proclaim Thomas had nearly committed suicide in front of Sybbie. Edith pursed her lips, seemingly distressed at the thought of Thomas nearly taking his life again. 

It touched Tom more than he could say. To know she was sympathetic on that front. 

“The shame of it has hurt him deeply.” Tom admitted, “I won’t stay till he’s given the apology he deserves and wrongs are mended. I’m going to travel and by god- I might even go to Ireland!” Tom said in a strain of optimism. Why not? If he was careful what had he to fear? He could get there the back way, avoid major cities and police- “And what’s more I’ll take him with me!” 

“How did we jump from Liverpool to Ireland?” Kieran wondered aloud, unamused. 

“Oh Tom- please-“ Edith begged for sense, “You’re talking nonsense. You cannot return to Ireland. You’ll be arrested!” 

“I have no fear of jail!” Tom proclaimed, “Only a life without him.” 

“Christ you’re lyrical.” Kieran rolled his eyes. 

“Daddy, I don’t want you to go to jail!” Sybbie begged, wide eyed. She seemed petrified at the concept. 

“If you go to jail, you’ll live a life without him-“ Edith added, still holding Sybbie tight in her arms. Her mothering instincts had taken over, causing her to sooth Sybbie even though she wasn’t strictly her own, “And speaking of which- where did this come from?” She demanded, a sharp edge slowly drawing in her voice, “I won’t pretend to agree or understand, though Bertie has certainly stated your case. Several times.” 

Tom could imagine Edith had had an ear chewing or two about the woes of lavender men. 

“… I love him, Edith.” Tom murmured. “That’s all there is to be said.” 

Edith sighed, and for a minute there was absolute silence as she judged up her position on the topic. Tom readied himself for another enemy, another fight. But Edith just pursed her lips, wetted them with a flick of her pink tongue, and finally looked back up to say, “We’d better go down. Bertie is ready to start a war.” 

Tom glanced at his valise upon the bed, wondering if he should take it with him. Would it be too powerful of a statement? To go down ready to leave? Should he wait until Sybbie’s valise was ready and then go? Tom was unsure and narrowed his eyes in thought. 

“Please don’t leave for Liverpool, not until you talk to Thomas about at it first.” Edith murmured. 

That made good sense. Tom should go visit Thomas today, should check in on him after the horrors of Wednesday and comfort him. Then he would speak about Liverpool, and they would make their decision. He was being too hasty, too wild at heart. He needed to reign it back in and remember his focus and center of self. 

“Fine.” Tom agreed, re-smoothing his hair with both hands and taking a deep breath, “I’ll visit Thomas today and talk to him about it. But I won’t make any more promises besides that.” 

“And I won’t ask you to.” Edith assured him at once. “Shall we?” She offered, taking the doorknob in hand pushing it open for all three of them to step out into the hall. Tom left his valise upon the bed. 

They returned downstairs, depositing Sybbie in the nursery where Nanny Armstrong was slowly pulling together an ornamental valise. Glad to be free of her quest, Nanny Armstrong instead set Sybbie’s valise to the side and refocused on getting her ready for teatime. 

Tom had a feeling he would have to pack Sybbie’s valise himself when the time came for it. 

Downstairs, Tom could hear arguing from the gallery steps, and approached the library with a sense of steeled resolve. Outside it’s door, Andy had his ear pressed to the wood along with Anna and Baxter who both seemed absolutely scandalized by what they were hearing. 

“Pardon me.” Edith proclaimed loudly, put off by the fact that gossip would surely spread, “Isn’t there work to be done?” 

“Oh don’t begrudge them.” Tom grumbled before either lady’s maid or footman could issue an apology, “This is like their daily newspaper— Andy where’s Mr. Carson?” 

“Downstairs, Mr. Branson.” Andy said, “Getting the tea tray ready.” 

“Fetch him.” Tom urged, for if anyone could reign in Mary, it was Carson. Tom could easily remember how Mary had bade Carson to leave the room before sawing through Edith’s heart with one rusty word about Marigold to Bertie. Tom had known in that moment that Mary had made Carson leave the room because she respected Carson’s opinion and love- she didn’t want to lose it to a fit of anger. The same rule would apply here, and might save them an argument. 

“Is that wise?” Edith asked as Andy scooted away at once, taking Anna and Baxter with him, “When he’s Mary’s protector?” 

“He’s more than that.” Tom assured her, but could say no more as Edith opened the library door and the three of them entered upon the fight of the year. 

In one corner stood Bertie, an army unto himself. The normally stoic and sweet Englishman had evaporated to be replaced by an incensed warrior, determined to hold to his cause even as he gripped his gray trilby hat with an iron tight grip. On the other side of the room, lounging upon the sofa like she were Cleopatra, was Mary. Henry was at her side, hardly fazed, but he did not seem to be arguing with Bertie and instead remained silent. On the other sofa sat Robert and Cora, both of whom looked ready to be nauseas for all the shouting and anger. What wouldn’t they give to have their tea and biscuits in peace? 

Kieran stood carefully behind Tom, neither avoiding nor partaking in the fight. He was here for Sybbie and nothing else- Tom could respect that. Likewise, Edith was more interested in holding her husband’s corner than scorning Mary. Tom knew that despite his growing numbers he was still the main player. 

“—I cannot believe that you would take such an ungenerous approach on the topic of love, Lady Mary!” Bertie was saying, cheeks pink with emotion. 

“Oh for god’s sake.” Mary scowled, unamused with the theatrics, “It’s hardly love.” 

“It is love!” Tom snapped, coming to stand by Bertie’s side. Bertie turned, shocked to find him there, and gazed on him with such bizarre adoration and respect that he almost looked similar to Thomas in that moment. 

_Steady on, Bertie_. Tom wanted to say, _I’m spoken for_. 

“Well look who it is!” Mary sneered with a flip of her hand, “The cavalry!” 

“What?” Tom demanded, angry, “Afraid of a fair fight?” Mary rolled her eyes. 

“Mary this is quite enough, even for you.” Edith snapped, perhaps unhumored at the concept of seeing Mary’s nasty streak again. Maybe Edith had hoped she’d be immune to it from now on with Bertie by her side. After a lifetime of battling with Mary, she no longer wanted to pick up the sword. 

“But he hardly even liked Barrow for years!” Mary urged, flustered that Edith was on the opposite side, once again. It seemed Edith wasn’t the only one who’d hoped for less fighting, “Surely you’re not on their side?” 

“Thomas has walls that he uses to keep others out, I admit it!” Tom wouldn’t run from the truth, “But when he started caring for the children, I realized just how wonderful of a person he was. It was impossible for me not to fall in love with him after that-“ 

“I stand firmly by Mr. Branson and Mr. Barrow.” Bertie said proudly, “My cousin suffered greatly in his short life, even while being a Marquess. I can hardly imagine the strife Mr. Barrow has endured as a member of the working class. I beseech you, Lady Mary, reconsider your stance. Think of the power of love! The adoration of two individuals-“ 

“Christ, and I thought you were lyrical.” Kieran muttered in Tom’s ear. Tom shot him a wary look over his shoulder. 

“But this is madness!” Mary seethed, “Barrow and Tom do not love each other-“ 

“We do!” Tom shouted right back, but before he could finish Mr. Carson entered the room bearing a tea tray that would, in all likelihood, go un drunk. “Mr. Carson!” Tom cried out, pinning the man as he sat down his tea tray upon the serving table, “Tell her! Tell her Thomas and I love one another!” 

“Carson for god’s sake.” Robert bemoaned, rubbing his head with a tender hand, “Get them to calm down, before I have another ulcer.” 

“I think we should all remember that there are a pack of maids in the hall with their ears pressed to the door.” Mr. Carson said to Mary and Tom both. He wasn’t chastising them but he certainly wasn’t happy. 

“Not to mention a footman.” Edith added. 

A small silence fell as Carson began to pour tea. Robert accepted his cup, gray faced, and immediately dunked a biscuit in to munch on it soothingly. He was practically stress eating at this point. 

“…Thank god.” He muttered, leaning back against the sofa. Cora patted his arm endearingly. 

“Maybe you should lie down, Robert?” Cora murmured. In all fairness, the man did look ready for a nap. 

Robert took one enormous slurp of tea, then rose up and handed his cup back to Carson who accepted it without comment. 

“Settle this amongst yourselves.” Robert mumbled. “I’m going to rest.” 

With that, Robert left, closing the door shortly behind him so that an uneasy silence fell upon the family. Cora did not seem willing to finish her tea, much too perturbed by all the shouting and arguing. 

“I apologize, Carson.” Cora murmured, “You must think we’re behaving very badly.” 

“I would never imagine anything of the sort, My lady.” Carson said with glowing pride, “Though I admit one or two of you could use with a shape up.” 

No prizes were to be given out on whom Mr. Carson referring to. Tom’s ears grew hot with the man’s stare. 

“Look.” Mary snapped, setting her teacup down to glare at Bertie. Edith clung to his elbow supportively. “I’m not in the mood to fight with you, I’d rather the pair of us got along after this summer. But you cannot deny there is a certain ugly edge to all this business. How do we know that this isn’t a ploy by Barrow to get power in our house? A foothold in the door? To sway Tom and worm his way in-“ 

But this just made Tom see red, as he remembered how Thomas had lain beneath him, whimpering with each thrust- so sweet and pure like an ugly thought had never entered his mind. Tom knew that Thomas had had his fair share of malice, but when he was with Tom, when they kissed and clung, he was washed clean of any impure thoughts. 

He wouldn’t allow Mary to say otherwise. 

“How dare you?!” Tom roared, absolutely furious. Mary went white, her lips pursed in outrage. 

“Easy Tommy-“ Kieran warned, putting a hand on his shoulder. It did him very little good. 

“Tom please for heaven’s sake don’t shout-“ Cora urged, “I’m staring to get a headache too. “

“Always trust you to take the ungenerous approach.” Edith said scathingly, “Could it not be that Barrow and Tom genuinely care for one another?” 

“You’re a coward!” Tom said, furious, “He adores your son, like he were his own! He would do anything for the children, and you know it! And still you treat him like a dog-!” 

“I am not a coward!” Mary rose up from the couch, abandoning her tea to glare ferociously right back at Tom. 

“Mary.” Henry finally intervened, standing up as well to take his wife’s elbow. “… I think we’re all getting a little defensive here. Let’s give Bertie a chance to speak his mind.” 

But Bertie did not look ready to fight anymore. Instead he looked almost sickened by the sight of Mary and dropped his head to gather his composure once more. 

“I… I think I need to stop too. I admit I’m very unsettled by what I’ve witnessed here today.” Bertie murmured. Edith looked upon him imploringly, “I’ve seen this same argument all my life. Between my late cousin and his mother- my own mother even. It rattled me so much in my youth. To see it now again, in this house? It makes me sick to my stomach.” He shook his head, disgusted, “I thought you were accepting.” 

“I am accepting!” Mary protested, and for the first time she sounded desperate. 

“You cannot claim that after your words today.” Bertie shot down, “At most, you are aware.” 

“Mary is aware of scandal!” Henry urged. 

“But you can trust Thomas!” Tom cried out. “For god’s sake if he were to ever breath a word-“ 

“That’s not the point, Tom!” Mary spat, “It’s not the damage he could do outside the house, it’s inside! With us! Look at what he’s done to us!” 

“No!” Tom refused to let Thomas be blamed for this nastiness, “No, this is all you! He did nothing but defend himself your attacks!” 

“Carson!” Mary beseeched, “Carson, talk to him!” She thrust her hand out at Tom. “Make him understand.” 

Silence fell as every pair of eyes turned to Carson, who watched Mary carefully as he set down his tea tray. 

“…M’lady.” Carson murmured, in his most respectful voice, “I trust Mr. Barrow- I would not have left the house in his charge, if I didn’t. It is wise of you not to forget the past, but how can Barrow ever be good if no one allows him to be?” 

The tone of the argument shifted at once as Mary looked at Carson for a stranger. Perturbed, she took her place back on the couch, almost exhausted. Henry sat back down with her. 

“Aye, that’ll do it.” Kieran spoke up in the silence. 

“Thomas has walls, Mary.” Tom urged, pressing his advantage, “Thick walls, built from a life of hardship.” 

“An easy thing for me to believe when even a Marquess was driven to suicide.” Bertie said bitterly. 

“But I thought it was Malaria-“ Mary tried to get her facts straight. Bertie shook his head, sorrowful. 

So it seemed that Thomas was not alone in his attempted escape route. 

“It’s all Thomas knew- it’s all that kept him safe-“ Tom urged, “Sybil saw past it when they worked together. She said he was the salt of the earth-“ 

“And I wonder what Sybil would say if she knew you were mooning after her footman?” Mary scowled, the memory of her departed sister making her bitter. 

“Mary.” Cora murmured in disapproval. Tom did not allow guilt to sting him in that moment. 

“I don’t have to wonder.” Tom said proudly, “I know. Thomas and I bonded over many things, and one of them was a ouija board.” 

“Jesus feckin’ christ-!” Kieran bemoaned at this, raking a hand across his face, “You didn’t mention this on the phone!” 

“Why am I not surprised.” Carson muttered, rolling his eyes to the ceiling. 

“A… ouija board?” Cora demanded, unable to believe her ears. 

“A spirit board— like the one that talks to the dead?” Even Bertie was confused. 

“Oh Tom.” Edith muttered, disapproving. 

Tom refused to be embarrassed. He knew what he was about! “We talked to a blinded soldier named Edward that was apparently quite soft on Thomas when he was alive- he didn’t like me, I suppose he was jealous- but we also talked to Sybil! It was her that helped me sort out some of my feelings-!” 

“Ay- do you remember when we were kinds and Granpa Seamus used to hide outside in our mum’s drapes to try and scare us when she played with the Ouija? Is that what you want?” Kieran gestured angrily to Carson who looked quite affronted, “The butler sneaking around in your bedsheets?” 

Carson seethed, jaw locked tight. 

“Spare me the imagery!” Kieran sneered. 

“Let me get this straight.” Mary sneered, now talking to Tom like he were simple. “You sorted your feelings… through a ouija board.” 

Tom glared at her, stiffening under her ugly tone. He was aware of how foolish he sounded. “Some of them.” He said in a clipped voice, “Yes.” 

“And… you expect us to take that as faith that your love is true and pure?” Mary drawled, eyes half-lidded at this point. “That your love is even love at all.” 

“Lady Mary, please.” Bertie was exhausted, “Please do not degrade their affections any further, it insults your intelligence-“ 

“What insults my intelligence, is having to listen to this ruddy ouija board nonsense!” Mary snapped, no longer willing to debate the merits of a spirit board, “I hardly believe in God, now you want me to believe in ghosts?!” 

“Steady on!” Kieran snapped, affronted at Mary’s anti-religious tone. 

“Mary!” Even Cora was shocked.  
Mary rolled her eyes, bitter at being shamed for not being overly Christian. 

“Why am I not surprised.” Edith scoffed, for where Mary was hard she was soft as a boiled apple. 

“You need t’get to church an’ sort yerself out!” Kieran was a devout Catholic, he didn’t care for anti-religious thoughts. 

“I’ve had enough of this.” Mary snapped, jerking to her feet. “I’m going for a walk. Alone.” 

With that, she stormed for the library door, cheeks flushed red with embarrassment. 

“I warn you, when you get back I might be gone.” Tom spoke up. “I’m going to talk to Thomas today about leaving for Liverpool, an’ if he agrees we’re going tonight an’ taking Sybbie with us.” 

“Oh, Tom!” Cora rose up, beseeching, “Please!” 

“She’s his daughter!” Kieran was at his side at once, “I’m her godfather! I dunno what Barrow is to her-“ 

“He was her nanny!” Tom cried out. 

“So how can you claim she’d be in any danger?” Kieran demanded.  
Tom noted that Carson had caught Mary gently by the elbow- was whispering something in her ear till the hot red in her cheeks turned a soft pink instead. She was expressionless, listening intently to whatever he said. 

“Our house offers stability.“ Cora urged. Kieran scoffed rudely at this. 

“Don’t snub her, Kieran.” Tom warned, for though Cora was wrong in this moment, she had a point deep down. “It’s true that the abbey isn’t safe for Thomas right now, but I assure you this house is incredibly stable most of the time.” 

“Aye, but now it’s a war zone!” Kieran sneered, gesturing from Mary (who was still in the grip of Mr. Carson) to Cora, who looked ready to weep for the thought of losing her first grandchild. “So we’re goin to talk to this Barrow fellow, an’ then were’ leaving an’ takin’ the babe with us. Try an’ call the police, we’ll go the back way!” 

“Good!” Mary had stopped talking to Carson and was glaring at them ferociously. “I could do without your company for a while.” 

Mary left. Henry rose up, intent on following her, but before he could take two steps she was out the door and had slammed it in their wake. 

Tom turned as well. He would leave now for the Carson’s— 

“Mr. Branson-!” Carson called out, sharply. Tom was brought to a pause, “I cannot allow Barrow to leave my house. He is in a precarious way. I wish for him to remain in my domain for a while.” 

“I’ll be the one to talk to him about that, if you don’t mind Mr. Carson.” Tom warned. “An’ if he gives the word, I’m takin’ Sybbie with me.” 

“Oh Tom…” Cora begged, “Please don’t.” 

“I won’t have her listening to Mary cursing my existence. Or Thomas’.” 

“I beg of you, stay one more night. Don’t leave in a hot rush.” Cora urged, desperate to appeal to his softer side, “Let’s all have dinner tonight, and we can talk some more then. We can let everyone settle down.” 

It was the look in Cora’s eyes that got him- the glistening of unshed tears which reminded him of the night Sybil had died and how she’d wept at his side them too. The others had gaped on in horror- it had been Cora on her knees with Tom. Cora to howl at Sybil to stay, to just keep breathing. 

Tom sighed, suddenly feeling quite guilty. 

“…Fine.” He muttered, “One more night.” 

~*~

Completely oblivious to the fact that Tom was on his way to the house, Thomas sat in the Carson’s basement making piles out of tools. 

Above him in the kitchen, Mrs. Hughes sat at his sketchpad on an offered sheet, plotting out her garden so that she might have a master plan to refer back to as she worked. Tomorrow she would start her first bit of planting- the potatoes would go in first. But where to put them? Well… that was the trick, wasn’t it. A well placed potato. 

Mrs. Hughes’ work was brought to a momentary pause by a hurried jiggle of the front door handle- she paused, looking around alarmed. Who on earth could be calling at such an early hour? But her question was answered by the sound of the key in the lock as the door swung wide to reveal Carson. He looked harried, and looked around alarmed as if expecting to find an enemy inside ready to swing. 

“Oh!” She cried out, coming around the bend to greet him at the door, “What are you doing home so early?” 

“Her ladyship gave me leave to stop a disaster. Has Mr. Branson stopped by here?” He demanded. 

“No.” Mrs. Hughes shook her head- for really nothing had happened that day so far, “Why on earth should he?” 

“He left the abbey in a rush with his brother. He mentioned he was leaving with Thomas for Liverpool-“ 

“Well he certainly hasn’t been here!” Mrs. Hughes scoffed at the nonsense of it all, shutting the front door and locking it before an Irish radical could come bursting through to sweep his english flower away. “And he is _not_ taking Thomas to Liverpool. Not after Wednesday. Honestly is there _any_ sense left in his head?” 

“I highly doubt it.” Mr. Carson growled. 

 

Their shifting feet upon the wooden floorboards sent a tiny rain of dust down upon Thomas’ head. He grimaced, looking up at the ceiling. Was that Mr. Carson’s voice he heard? He doubted it highly, given the fact that Mr. Carson was supposed to be at the abbey right now. 

Thomas scooted about in the near dark, all but obscured in the gloom save for his one oil lamp that hung over his head on a rusted hook. He’d come down here to collect a few tools but now he was cleaning, sweeping away dust and re-sorting items till everything was in its proper place. Mr. Carson must not have had much time to be down here yet- it would help if Thomas could lend him a hand and get it ready for work. On the far end of the basement sat a strange little door, looking almost like a coal hole, and Thomas bent over to try its petite handle. It wouldn’t budge; it seemed the hinges were rusted shut. He wondered what lay behind it and gave one more hearty tug before giving up. 

Whatever it was, there was probably just a bigger mess behind it. Thomas needed to deal with the first mess before starting on the second one. 

He turned back around, crossing to the completely opposite side of the basement only to double back and fetch his oil lamp upon the hook. He could barely see in the far corner- he needed more light. As he came around he saw a large puddle upon the floor, and grimaced. 

“Eugh…” Thomas muttered aloud, careful not to step in it. “What is this? Where did this come from?” 

He glanced up and saw pipes criss crossing over his head. “Must be a burst pipe.” He muttered, and squatted down to hold the lamp over the puddle. Its reflection made the surface shine like gold. 

Thomas suddenly felt incredibly dizzy. He grimaced, reaching out to touch the water. It was an ugly maroon from rust and dirt. 

“Gross.” Thomas sighed, flicking his fingertips to dry them of nasty water. The droplets made ripples upon the water’s shining surface—

And then a hand shot out of the depths to grab his tight about the wrist. 

Terrified, Thomas panicked and dropped his oil lamp. The glass bulb shattered, extinguishing the light, and suddenly Thomas was struggling wildly with a force he could not see. In the absolute darkness, he panted and trembled, inches away from screaming at the top of his lungs. If he screamed he knew Mrs. Hughes would come running— she would give him more medicine which would knock him out and make him sick to his stomach. He had to keep his wits up! He had to keep from screaming! He had to regain control! Whatever had a hold of him, he wouldn’t allow it to grab him so easily! 

Thomas struggled back and froth, panting and sweating from the strain of the exertion.

_My darling…_

The voice was growing louder in his ears. The marbles were rolling-! 

But they weren’t marbles, were they? They were just phobias from a lifetime of prejudice. Thomas refused to bow to them any longer!

“Let me go!” He spat in the darkness, finally able to view a bony white hand holding tight to his wrist. A face was beginning to appear beneath the surface of the water, ghastly scars across the eyes. 

_“…No. “_ It said, and yanked hard on Thomas’ wrist. 

~*~

Disputing the facts and arguing over what was to be done upstairs came to a grinding halt at a prompt knocking upon the front door. 

Charles Carson was ready to snap an Irishman’s neck, but his wife tried his virtues. 

“Charles.” She muttered her warning, “Be kind. Kindness is a virtue.” 

“And what of my moral standards?” Mr. Carson wondered if the world was going mad around him. 

“If they start slipping, I will be the first to tell you.” She replied, and with that the door was opened.  
And who should appear on the other side but Thomas and Kieran Branson. 

 

 

They’d walked from the Abbey, momentarily put off as Tom set Sybbie right and warned the Nanny that their plans were opt to change depending upon the upcoming conversation. Kieran made him feel brave and strong, despite him going against Robert’s rules, and so Tom had walked with a jaunt in his step to the Carson’s cottage. It had struck him as odd that Mr. Carson had not been at the door to see the pair of them out, and had remained a mystery right up until Tom had knocked on the Carson’s front door only to find Mr. Carson on the other side. 

Of course, the man had snuck out to head Tom off. No wonder Tom hadn’t been hounded by Cora to see sense. Sense had gotten a head start and was waiting for Tom at his destination. 

“Mr. Carson, Mrs. Hughes.” Tom tipped his trilby hat to them both, doing his hardest not to glare at Mr. Carson whom he was certain had all but fled the abbey directly after Tom had left the library. “I’ve come to speak with Thomas.” 

“He’s not home.” Mr. Carson then made to close the door, and might have succeeded had Tom not jerked his foot out to stop the door with his shoe. Mr. Carson looked ready to set him on fire. 

Behind him, Kieran watched from a wary distance, leaning casually against the outer wall of the cabin. 

“Mr. Carson.” Tom repeated warningly, “I’m here to speak Thomas. I’m not leaving until I do.” 

“When he is home, you are more than welcome to speak to him-“ Mr. Carson sneered. 

“He attempted suicide less than forty eight hours ago.” Tom snapped, “I highly doubt he’d be up for a walk into town.” 

“He wanted fresh air.” Mr. Carson snapped, clearly lying with every word. Honestly. 

“Is he out back?” Tom asked. 

“No.” Mr. Carson snapped, eyes darting back and forth as he conjured up yet another lie. 

“Then where is he?” Tom demanded, giving Carson no time to create a story. Mrs. Hughes sighed, exhausted by the argument about to unfold, and cut Mr. Carson off before he could say something else even more ridiculous. 

“…He’s in the basement.” Mrs. Hughes finally declared with an enormous sigh. Tom could hear the irritation in her voice plain as day, “He’s been working on a bit of a project but he needed some tools.” 

“May I see him?” Tom asked. 

“No.” Mrs. Hughes snapped, pursing her lips into a thin line, “I don’t think that would be wise. He’s been quite upset.” 

“Mrs. Hughes-!” Tom was ready to snap right back, “That’s why I need to see him! So I can comfort him and help him. I’m not here to make him have another meltdown. I’m here to prevent it!” 

“That’s all very well and good, Mr. Branson, but the history of the situation shows-“ 

Yet even as Mrs. Hughes made to tell him off again, a great commotion broke the argument in two. 

Thomas burst from a door beyond the entrance hall that must have lead down to the cellar- he was dirty and his hands were brown with mud. White faced, eyes wide as saucers, he fled as if being chased by a demon towards the front door. Tom was there to catch him, ready even as Thomas burst past Mrs. Hughes and Mr. Carson- muddy hands groping at the air. Tom caught him hard around the stomach and held on tight, keeping him from running off into the snowy woods and god knows where else. Thomas writhed momentarily, hands still clawing for freedom, but as he realized just who was holding him he quickly changed his tune. 

Thomas turned in Tom’s hold, burying his face in Tom’s neck. Muddy hands groped at his jacket but Tom didn’t care. So desperate was he to see Thomas and comfort him that the mud became like a badge of honor as he clung on tight. 

Kieran looked distinctly uncomfortable but Tom didn’t have it in him to give a damn. 

“I- a-“ Thomas stuttered, clearly petrified with his face in Tom’s neck. “It’s a well- It’s a well to the- to the other side-! It’s in the basement! Edward’s in the basement!” 

He was out of his wits with fear, he shouldn’t have been in the basement alone! 

“No… Don’t take on so.” Tom murmured into his hair, holding him tight. Mr. Carson was scowling heavily from the doorway, watching every move as Tom stroked Thomas’ black locks. “There’s nothin’ in the basement. Nothin’ at all.” He kissed Thomas on the top of his head, but noticed how his brother bristled and Mrs. Hughes looked away. Like they were both going to be sick. 

“I saw it!” Thomas blubbered, “I saw it… I keep seeing things I don’t want to see.” 

“I’m here now.” Tom forswore it like a knight to his armor, determined not to part from Thomas until he was calmed and soothed. His mind was filling with a fire, his breast burning-! 

Thomas looked up at him, and for the first time since last Thursday they were able to view one another like they’d done in bed. Eye to eye, without fear. 

Thomas’ eyes were bloodshot, lovely blue laced with fronds of red. The dew of unshed tears clung to his long eyelashes, making him look like he was dripping in diamonds as they sparkled in the noon sun. 

“…Tom?” Thomas said his name, unsure if what he was seeing was real. But Tom was real- he always would be- and he smiled at Thomas till Thomas bowed his head again in misery. 

“Oh Tom…” He mumbled, and put his arms around Tom’s neck. “I’m so sorry-“ 

Thomas’ arms were scratchy with gauze, stiff with white. Wednesday had been such utter hell for him, to imagine Thomas beyond his comfort and dying. Now together again at last, Tom smothered him with affection upon the Carson’s stoop, holding him tightly as he whispered in his ear. 

“Don’t be sorry.” He whispered. What on earth did Thomas have to be sorry for? 

“I broke my promise.” As Tom listened he inwardly cursed himself- of course- Thomas was speaking of how Tom had bade him never to commit suicide again. The night they’d made love, Tom had been over ruled by passion. He’d forgotten that it wasn’t Thomas’ fault he’d attempted suicide. Thomas was prone to anxiety and panic after a life of misery and terror. “I’m so sorry-“ 

“It’s not your fault. Let me see-” Tom urged, pulling back so that he could look at Thomas’ bandaged arms for the first time. His muddied hands were slowly being cleaned by Tom’s jacket front, each groove and pore was outline as a result. Thomas’ bandages were large- they stretched from wrist to elbow. Little was left to the imagination as Tom traced the gauze padding, noting where it turned pink every so often in thin lines. It seemed Thomas had cut himself several times in his panic. 

“Jezas feckin’ christ!” Kieran cursed, unable to contain himself, “He’s more cut up than a Christmas ham!” 

There was no cheer in his brother’s tones. Indeed, Kieran sounded slightly disgusted. Tom turned, tipping his head and narrowing his eyes, wishing he could let Kieran have a good tongue lashing right then and there. Kieran kept looking at Thomas like he had the pox, grimacing and leaning back against the outer wall of the Carson’s cottage. 

“Kieran…” Tom growled, well aware of the snide irritation in his tone, “This is Thomas.” 

Kieran looked Thomas up and down once, shook his head, and then looked way. Miserable, Thomas turned his face completely away from Kieran to hide once more in Tom’s shoulder. Tom gladly let him, for it was clear Kieran was not going to be supportive. 

“Y’could be less of an arse.” Tom warned him. 

“I’m….” Kieran said, but seemed to lose track of what he wanted to say halfway through saying it. Instead he shook his head again, looking at the icy dirt road on which they’d come, “I’m going to go down to the Grantham Arms and book m’room. I’ll be back. Eventually.” He added, which was to say that he wouldn’t be back at all or at least until he was forced to return. 

“Are you even going to say hello to him!?” Tom shouted after his brother’s retreating back, one hand buried tight in Thomas’ fluffy hair and the other clenching to Thomas’ lower back. Kieran waved his hand, still facing the opposite direction. Weakly, Thomas raised his hand back. That was about as good as their introduction got. 

As Kieran vanished around a bend in the road, Tom and Thomas were still outside the stoop, getting quite chilly from the nipping cold. Tom looked at the Carson’s, noticing that Carson himself was distinctly sour while Mrs. Hughes just looked horribly disappointed. Tom didn’t know what was more cold- the wind blowing or the looks he was receiving. 

“Can I come inside or do you want me to stand out here all night?” Tom demanded. Given that it was currently a little before noon, the words were ominous. 

“I doubt you’ll be here that long.” Mr. Carson snapped, turning away to head back into the darkness of his cottage. Mrs. Hughes couldn’t bar the door by herself, and sagged her head in irritable defeat as she finally admitted them both back in. 

She made tea, though no one seemed keen for a drink, and while Mr. Carson sat bitterly in his armchair stewing by the fire, Thomas and Tom sat on the sofa side by side, drawing comfort from one another. Thomas looked absolutely awful, with deep bruises underneath his eyes and a pallid complexion from a lack of sleep. 

“It was… a… puddle of water.” Thomas seemed to be having trouble talking. He was drugged, his speech slurred. Tom watched his every move with avid eyes like a hawk. What drugs had he been given? Who was doing the dosing? “And a… a hand came out of it. And grabbed me.” 

But this couldn’t be so for obvious reasons, so Tom gently rubbed Thomas on the back and offered up the only solution he knew: exploration of the facts. 

“Will you show me?” Tom asked. 

Thomas rose from the couch, and Tom followed him down the cellar stairs while Mrs. Hughes made tea and Mr. Carson sulked by the fire. The basement was damp and cold, without any light. Tom squinted to see a lone oil lamp, broken upon the floor over an enormous puddle. Tools hung on shelves, most of them in a clear state of disrepair; a tide of shallow muddy water lay on the floor in the far corner beneath a set of pipes, probably from the bathroom upstairs. Thomas pointed to it dumbly, too drugged to be sharp. 

“There.” He mumbled. “That one.” 

Tom went over, dutiful in his need to protect, and stooped down to squat by the puddle’s side. He found it completely normal, devoid of hands ghostly or otherwise. There were, however, obvious streaks and grooves in the mud where Thomas must have floundered with his fingers. 

“It’s rather dark down here.” Tom murmured, looking back up at the pipe overhead. He stood up, touching the pipe to feel it sweat under his hand. It must have a crack somewhere. “There must be a crack in the pipe. You shouldn’t be down here alone in your condition.” 

Thomas ought to be somewhere warm and quiet- maybe in his bed resting or out in a field laying on a quilt and listening to the world shift softly around him. Thomas mumbled, too low for Tom to here. In his drugged stupor his legs wobbled as he sniffed and wiped his long elegant nose with back of his hand. 

He was crying. 

Tom came to his side at once, reaching out to caress his face with both hands. He wiped away every tear his saw, enraged by the shame in Thomas’ eyes. 

Too often Thomas took the sins of the world on his own shoulders. None of this was his fault. 

“…M’darlin.” Tom whispered, rubbing his cool cheeks with his thumbs, “It’s alright.” 

“It’s not.” Thomas mumbled back, shaking his head. He drew in a shaky breath mumbling, “None of this is alright.” He wiped his own tears, face screwing up, “I’ve ruined your reputation with the family and my career and none of this is alright.” 

Thomas burst into tears, weak and unable to keep himself together.  
Tom took Thomas into his arms again, finally able to hold him as he ought to. Tom realized that this was the first time since Thursday they’d been able to hold one another, and did so tenderly now. 

Thomas had been scarred by this process, wounded deeply, “All I wanted was to love you. That’s all I wanted.” He groaned into Tom’s shoulder. 

Tom’s heart panged with misery, making him bitter at the world. 

“You are worth every pain, every irritation, and I love you.” Tom whispered in Thomas’ ear, furious at those who would dare deny his heart, “Forever.” He said the word hard, like a weapon. “You will never be alone again.” 

As he held Thomas, Tom buried his nose in his hair and smelt. Mostly it was just sweat, a soft salty tinge… Thomas needed a bath, and tender loving care. Tom wished he could provide for it without breaking the earth in twain. 

Heavy footfalls on the stairs nearly broke their embrace as Thomas tried to pull away. But Tom wouldn’t let him, determined to keep Thomas calm and safe. As Carson appeared on the stairs, glaring at them both, Tom pulled Thomas back into his arms and held him close. 

“If you will both get a hold of yourselves?” He demanded, using that scowl he’d so commonly referred to when berating the staff. 

“Will do, Mr. Carson.” Tom was completely unfazed. Eventually they would get a hold of themselves- but the context for Tom’s definition and Mr. Carson’s definition were on completely opposite pages. 

“Any moment now,” Mr. Carson demanded, “I would be obliged.” 

“Any moment what?” Tom refused to cave, refused to bend. There was nothing untoward about him hugging Thomas. 

“Stop being ridiculous!” Mr. Carson barked, the most polite of ways to demand Tom come to his sense at this point, “Pandering to your emotions like wailing women-“ 

“We’re not wailing.” Tom reminded him- and they weren’t! They were merely hugging very tightly to one another. Not a peep from either of them of the wailing sort. “We’re having a nice proper chat.” 

“Well could you have it without touching him?” Mr. Carson seemed disturbed by the notion that their arms could encompass one another. 

“Does it offend you when I touch him?” 

“Yes!” 

“Why?” 

But Mr. Carson couldn’t voice the reason without giving into bigotry, and Thomas would not allow the man to be humiliated. Whatever had occurred while Thomas had been staying at the Carson’s, it had now made him more aware of Mr. Carson’s weaknesses. Unhappy, Thomas pulled back, trying to detract himself from Tom’s arms. Now Tom had to wonder what on earth had occurred between the pair of them for Thomas to now cater to Mr. Carson’s wants instead of running from him. 

“Tom…” Thomas tried to get Tom to let go of him. Tom would not relinquish his grip, pulling Thomas back into him till they were once again nestled comfortably against one another. Mr Carson’s huffs were the padding to their bed. 

“You’re tired.” Tom mumbled against his skin. “Let me hold you.”  
Thomas did not fight him, and for the soft breathing against Tom’s shoulder he could very well be asleep. 

Mr. Carson ground his jaw, bowing his head for a moment as he clenched the railing to the basement in a knuckle white grip. “Thomas.” He warned. 

Thomas did not shift his head. 

“Thomas.” 

Thomas was still silent- 

“Thomas!” Mr. Carson shouted angrily, “Get upstairs this instant!” 

Thomas jumped, the top of his head nearly bopping Tom in the nose as he jerked back from Tom to nervously straighten his back. He smoothed down his hair repeatedly, which was a useless gamble without pomade. Thomas’ hair, unsettled, was relatively light and fluffy without direction as if a child had filled it with static. 

If there was anyone in the world Thomas was scared of, it was Mr. Carson. 

 

Despite Mr. Carson’s anger and demands, Tom would not be swayed. If he wanted them to go upstairs, they would go upstairs, but at the kitchen table Tom held Thomas’ hand just as he’d done downstairs in the basement. Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes sat across from them, absolutely fuming as Tom stroked Thomas’ dirty knuckles and allowed his tea to cool. 

Tom refused to bow to the waves or irritation. He would hold Thomas’ hand or die by god. 

“Bertie’s here now.” Tom murmured, watching every nod of Thomas’ head, every crinkle of his brow. “He’s very upset. I think he’ll help Mary to see that her discrimination is exactly that—“ 

At the concept of Mary being discriminatory, Mr. Carson glared and looked at the ceiling. The man would rather swallow lye than change his loyalties. 

“Kieran is just difficult by base nature.” Tom assured him, “I promise you, he is on our side.” 

Thomas shook his head, “He thinks I’m mad.” 

“Well you’re not.” Mrs. Hughes cut Tom off before he could say the exact same thing. Tom noted that no one was touching their tea. That Mrs. Hughes looked more angry than Mr. Carson at this point. 

Mr. Carson was still staring at the fireplace in the living room, cotton in his ears at the thought of Mary being untoward. 

“…You’ve been so kind to me.” Thomas glanced up at Mrs. Hughes, softening her expression as she noted the humility in his voice, “To help me in this moment. Truly, it means more to me than you know.” 

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Mrs. Hughes murmured, finally taking up her teacup, “This is your home.” 

“But it’s not.” Tom squeezed Thomas’ hand at the bitter words, “It’s your home. I don’t have a home.” Tom still refused to comment, allowing Mrs. Hughes and Mr. Carson to have their peace. Maybe it would help them to relax. 

“You will.” Tom urged when the silence just stretched on and on, “I’ve been thinking… maybe we should get a place, just you and I-“ 

“Don’t be ridiculous!” Mr. Carson wouldn’t even allow him to finish the thought, absolutely scandalized by the thought of Tom and Thomas buying a house together. 

“I don’t think it’s ridiculous.” Tom refused to rise to the bait, instead aiming for optimism in this dark moment, “I don’t think I can live in the abbey after this. It’s changed how I view all of them-“ 

“Why?” Mr. Carson sneered, crossing his arms over his chest, “Because they won’t pander to your insanities?” 

Tom looked across the table and found Mr. Carson practically aflame with rage, face bright red and hands clenched upon the table. Tom was certain it was only his good English blood and his harsh breeding of manners that kept him from leaping up and strangling Tom at that moment. Tom turned a bit in his chair, facing the man head on. 

Thomas’ hand was beginning to sweat in his grip. 

“Are you angry at me, Mr. Carson?” Tom asked, as calmly as he could muster. Mrs. Hughes spoke up before Mr. Carson could get started- Tom had all but neglected her but found her to be livid now. Her sagging cheeks were flushed pink with anger. 

“Not as angry as me!” She declared. Tom frowned, pursing his lips. 

The thought of Mrs. Hughes angry at him did not set right by him. Mrs. Hughes had become a mother to him in light of his own mother’s death, and he wanted her to be pleased with his behavior. He’d hoped her generous nature would soften his pillow, but it seemed in that moment she did not have any generosity to give. All her kindness had gone to Thomas in this round, a desperate attempt to stabilize him as the world raged and howled at the door. 

“I’m sorry to hear that.” Tom murmured, head bowed in slight penance, “You’re a good woman, Mrs. Hughes, and I’ve always respected you.” 

Mrs. Hughes pursed her lips, expelling a long thin breath from her nostrils. She seemed to be considering her words very carefully in that moment while Mr. Carson was back to glaring at the fireplace. 

“Mr. Branson.” Mrs. Hughes drummed her wrinkled fingers upon the wooden table, “You are a very…” She considered her words, “Passionate man. Your passions have a way of getting ahead of you and normally I could understand- but this time I cannot.” She glared at him, “Thomas is vulnerable, fragile, and confused. He needs normalcy, quiet, and calm. A steady home and a loving hand… not romantic insanities stemming from political outrage.” 

Tom blanched. 

“I think that this-“ Mrs. Hughes gestured with a flippant hand to where their own were clasped upon the table, “Whatever it is- needs to stop.” 

Thomas looked away, heartbreak riddling his lovely features. 

“I think you both need time apart.” She urged, “To remember who you are! And to come to your senses!” 

Thomas used his free hand to rub at his face, hiding his eyes momentarily as he wiped the tiredness. He looked like he could sleep for ten years and not be without just cause. Tom stroked their clasped hands upon the table, using his fingers to carefully brush away the dried dirt from Thomas’ knuckles. 

“I understand that you’re confused, Mrs. Hughes.” Tom started from the beginning, determined to make their case as calmly as he could, “I know this must look peculiar. But you’ve got it all wrong.” 

“How have I got it all wrong.” Mrs. Hughes crossed her arms over her chest, mirroring her husband’s posture. Mr. Carson was still glaring at the far off fireplace. He was going to fuel the flames if he wasn’t careful. 

“This isn’t political outrage.” Tom urged for what felt like the tenth time; why did everyone think he was trying to make a political stand? “I’m not trying to make a point with an artistic expression- I’d never be so base as to use another human being that way. I fell in love with Thomas over Christmas and I courted him while the family was away in France. Obviously I didn’t put this on display. My senses never left me. Neither did his.” Tom tipped his head to Thomas, “We had normalcy and quiet when we were together alone. All January we were together- not a peep happened then! We were quite happy together before Mary started persecuting us. I’m not rattling his sanity, _she_ is.” Tom looked to Mr. Carson with a scowl, “I’d imagine you’d have something to say in her defense though.” 

Mr. Carson refused to speak. Mrs. Hughes rolled her brown eyes. 

“He’d forgive her if she smacked him with a brick.” Mrs. Hughes said, on the same side as Tom for that particular topic. Mr. Carson huffed, but refused to speak against his wife. 

“Give her a brick and see if she doesn’t lob it at Thomas.” Tom declared, unable to keep from glaring, “I’m sorry you’re angry at me, I’m sorry you’ve all been put through this, but I love Thomas.” He squeezed Thomas knuckles painfully tight, “Truly. Deeply. And I’m not changing my mind or backing down just because Mary’s prone to throw a hissy fit. I’m not.” 

Mrs. Hughes waved a hand at this, cutting him off, “Mr. Branson, you are not like Thomas-“ 

“It’s true, I am attracted to women as well as men.” Tom would not hide from the facts, no matter how peculiar they appeared, “It’s true I’ve loved a woman and had a child by her… but I am attracted to Thomas as well. And he’s not the first man I’ve found attractive… just the first man I’ve pursued.” 

Mrs. Hughes purse her lips, looking at Thomas now. Thomas bowed his head, unwilling to meet her eyes for the shame she must bring him, “Thomas, you know your mental state. Do you really think now is the time for romance?” 

Mr. Carson looked at Thomas, the pair of them staring and waiting for Thomas’ answer till Thomas started to break out into a sweat. 

“I…” Thomas sounded unsure for a moment.  
Tom’s heart skipped a beat, pounding painfully in his chest. 

“I… don't know… how to think about this. I don’t want to lose the respect and trust you’ve place in me but… I can’t live without Tom.” Tom’s heart unclenched, a warmth flooding his veins even as Mr. Carson began to scowl again. Thomas flushed, unable to meet the man’s eyes, “I need his help right now, I don’t feel well.” He begged. Mr. Carson just shook his head, disappointed, “I don’t know what’s real or…” Thomas tapped his temples with his free hand, “in my head. I’m so afraid I’m going to have to go to Rustington or Briarcliffe. I don’t want to be crazy.” 

“You’re not.” Tom urged at once, scooting his chair over so that he was even closer to Thomas and could use his free hand to grasp the back of Thomas’s chair. Thomas met his eyes, the fear evident within him. “You’re stressed, that’s all this is! It’s stress.” 

“Stress.” Thomas muttered the word, unconvinced. 

Tom pushed forward, determined, “Look…” He fished through his memory for a good example, “Once, my grandad took me mam’s sheets and cut holes in them to try an’ be a ghost, and chased us all around the house till we were screamin’ for our father to come save us.” 

Thomas blanched, meeting Tom’s eyes again. All the fear had fled away to be replaced by peculiarity. 

“Well, dad was too busy laughing his boots off but mam had had a bad week- real bad.” Tom urged. “I can’t remember why, only that our father had urged us all to be on our best behavior or she was liable to put us in the corner for no reason. I think I was too small to be let in on family scandals yet. Anyways-!” Tom continued on, “Those sheets me granda’ had cut up were a wedding present from her cousin, or some of the like. She was real fond of them. And do you know what she did?” Tom urged. “My catholic, loving, gentle as a lamb mother?” 

“Cried?” Thomas offered. Tom shook his head. If only. 

Because he could still remember his mother screaming and chasing after his grandfather like a celtic soldier. 

“She took up a rolling pin from the kitchen counter- it was made of marble mind you- and chased after him all around the house. He still had the sheet on too! An’ he was running as fast as he could- tripping over cow holes and weed clumps because he couldn’t see with that sheet over his head. Meanwhile me mam is screamin’ at him: _“Seamus Branson, I’ll have your head!”_

Thomas couldn’t help it, he started tittering with laughter, giggling feverishly till he had to clasp a hand over his mouth. Mrs. Hughes was determinedly keeping her face straight but Mr. Carson looked deeply disturbed. 

“So he ran from one place to the next, but he couldn’t get away from her.” Tom kept on, “And then he ran to the one place women couldn’t go- a pub on the main square only for men. An’ the story goes that he crawled in the door, covered in cow shite with that sheet still on him-“ Thomas was tittering, a hand tight over his mouth and eyes sparkling with mirth, “And me mam- me wee five foot mam who’d never crossed a man in her life, forced her way into that bar! This private gentleman’s bar, waving that marble rolling pin like a baton, and grabbed me grandfather by the sheet and drug him _back out_ to chastise him in the street!” 

Thomas wiped tears of mirth from the corner of his eyes. 

“And the best part is that the whole time into town, my grandfather kept that sheet over his head because he couldn’t stop to pull it off- and he was shrieking-“ 

“Like a ghost.” Thomas finished with humor. 

“Like a ghost.” Tom agreed. “My point being that we all do wild things under stress… so don’t think you’re crazy.” 

Thomas smile began to drop and pause, his mirth leaving as Tom’s story faded into the tense present. 

“…But your mother would never have cut her wrists.” Thomas murmured.  
Tom would not lie. 

“God— I don’t think she ever went down that dark path.” Tom admitted, for his mother had always been cheerful to a determined point. To the point of being outrageously optimistic and driving his pessimistic father insane. “She had seven children. she couldn’t be bothered to be alone for five minutes- her marriage to my father was secure, and who would feed the bird if she died? Cor, when she passed, Dad swore he was going to sell the thing but he never did. He just sat there staring at it.” Tom murmured. 

The image of his father alone in the kitchen, glumly kept company by a once chatting bird now silent as the grave its mistress had filled. 

“He burst into tears once because the bird starting saying ‘Nee’.” Tom paused, a bitter smile stinging his lips, “Me mam’s name was Niamh, but we called her Nee sometimes.” 

He rubbed his jaw, determined to get back on topic as Thomas squeezed his hand lovingly. 

“It’s not the same as you.” Tom urged as a final point. Thomas shrugged bitter. 

“My mother killed herself and she had seven children too-“ 

“Aye but your father was mean as a snake to her, right?” 

Thomas’ expression flashed, an ugly darkness showing from beneath. A memory Tom would never know, “Right.” 

“An’ he forced you out of the house. imagine her comin’ home and findin’ her baby gone.” 

Thomas’ expression turned stony. 

“I keep tellin’ you love.” Tom urged, “It’s not the same.” He squeezed Thomas’ hand with both of his own, clasping and comforting him, “An’ I’ll be damned be damned before I see you go to Briarcliffe.” 

Thomas sighed, bowing his head and licking his lips. Whatever words that were stuck in his mouth, they stayed there. 

“I know it’s difficult to see happiness…” Tom murmured, “I can understand why you’re afraid. But I’m not afraid and you shouldn’t be either. We can still win this fight.” Tom urged, “We can still be happy.” 

Carson snorted at this, unamused. Mrs. Hughes looked sour. 

Tom glanced at them, unafraid, “Do you not want us to be happy.” 

“I don’t think you can be.” Mrs. Hughes said, bitter. 

“Why not?” 

“Because men of Thomas’ sort can never have carefree lives.” Mrs. Hughes said. 

“Only because society tries to prevent it. What’s to stop them if they’re in a supportive environment?” Tom countered. 

“But don’t you see, there will never be a supportive environment.” Mrs. Hughes seemed to be growing near the end of her patience. 

“I don’t agree with that.” Tom said, refusing to let his anger show in his voice. He would not shout at Mrs. Hughes- he would not! “I believe there will be one day, if we fight for the chance.” 

“I don’t believe Thomas has enough energy for that fight.” Mrs. Hughes gestured to where Thomas sat with his head bowed and his mouth pursed tight. The gauze on his arms stood out, ominous, “I don’t believe any of us do.” 

“I do.” Tom assured her. 

“So that is your intention?” Mr. Carson drawled, unimpressed, “To fight for the rest of your life?” He sneered at this, “You find that sort of shiftless living appealing, do you?” 

“Well, yes, I do.” Tom glared, refusing to bow, “I fight for love, a more honorable purpose has never been found as of yet.” 

“And what about the honor of the family?” Mr. Carson demanded. 

“Well I can’t help them on that.” Tom countered. Mr. Carson looked scandalized. 

~*~

Shockingly enough, Kieran did return. It just wasn’t until right before dinner. 

In Tom’s room, Kieran watched sulkily as Tom put on his dinner jacket and carefully knotted his white tie. Kieran didn’t have anything near as fine, and despite Tom offering Kieran one of his own white tie jackets to wear, Kieran had scoffed at him like Tom had offered to drape him in shit instead. 

After seeing Thomas at the Carson’s, Tom had not been able to bring up the topic of Liverpool. It had been one thing to hear ‘don’t bother Thomas’ from another’s mouth, and a whole different cricket match entirely to sit with Thomas on the Carson’s couch and realize just how awful shape he was in. In all honesty he didn’t need to be traveling (or doing Carson’s housework). He needed to be resting, to be cared for. If Thomas wanted to go to Liverpool, Tom would have to go first and find a place for them to be alone. Kieran’s garage would be too noisy and rambunctious for Thomas. Maybe they could find a place near a park, somewhere Thomas could hear wild ducks chattering and nothing more. 

Kieran scowling upon his desk chair was another problem. Tom narrowed his eyes at his brother in the mirror, very aware of his bad attitude. 

“You know, you could have been a little more polite,” Tom snapped. Kieran did not look in the least bit sorry. 

“Tom.” He warned, “He’s cracked like an egg.” 

Tom paused, half way through knotting his white tie. He felt his blood pressure kick up a temp, “Kieran…” He growled, “Don’t test me on that subject.” 

“Did you see the way he nearly ran out into the street? Christ, he was completely out of his mind-!” 

In the knot, under the hole, back through the loop— _do not punch your brother in the face._

“I love him, Kieran.” Tom snapped, cutting him off before he could say anything else ugly, “Respect that or we’ll have to take it outside.” 

“Give the high and mighty Crawleys something to talk about, eh?” Kieran drawled, relaxing in Tom’s desk chair like it was a throne. 

“I’m warning you!” Tom turned around to face his brother dead on. His sulky attitude was starting to rub Tom all the wrong ways, “Not another word on him.” 

“Fine.” Kieran snapped, looking away out Tom’s darkening window. He rose up, abandoning to the chair until he and Tom were standing directly before one another. The sun had almost set now, “But I don’t support this. I’ll hold your rights as Sybbie’s father to the grave, but this love affair of yours has got to end. He’s a creep!” 

The word ‘creep’ was like a trigger to a gun for Tom, and he snapped, spinning around to grab Kieran by the throat and pin him to the wall. 

This wasn’t uncommon, for the pair of them to squabble physically with one another; as children their father had often yanked the pair of them free by their ears to drag them outside and whip them with his belt. But their father was dead now, and the only one liable to whip them was Mr. Carson. 

“… Take it back.” Tom growled. 

“No.” Kieran refused to budge an inch. 

“Take it back.” Tom said through clenched teeth, “Or I’ll crack your nose.” 

“Crack m’nose!” Kieran taunted, “I won’t take it back!” 

But even as Tom bore down on his brother, contemplating the idea of smacking him once just for good measure, a prompt knock upon his bedroom door caused him to immediately drop his older brother and spin around. There, in the doorway, was Nanny Armstrong with Sybbie who was wearing a soft peach dress for dinner that night with a bow in her hair. She looked positively fretful, chewing at her bottom lip as she curtseyed to Tom just like she’d been taught to do and trotted over to take his hand. Tom picked her up at once, stroking her feather soft hair. His heart was still pounding in his chest from his rage with Kieran but he refused to let that taint his time with his daughter. Sybbie already looked nervous enough, no doubt catching in on the bad vibe impregnating the abbey. 

“Hello, darlin…” Tom murmured, smiling wistfully at her, “My how beautiful you look.” 

“Mr. Branson.” Nanny Armstrong reminded him, “You mustn’t carry her around all the time. Allow her to walk about- she’s a lady not an infant-“ 

“Who are you, her nanny?” Kieran demanded, affronted. 

“… That’s exactly who she is.” Tom admitted, for thought Kieran had meant it as an insult, it was a way of life that upper class children looked to a governess instead of their own parent. Kieran scoffed, affronted. Nanny Armstrong pursed her lips, her brow furrowed at being insulted for doing a good and proper job. 

“Like a Branson should ever need a nanny.” Kieran muttered angrily. 

“Lady Sybil is a member of the gentry.” Nanny Armstrong warned Kieran. Tom noticed anger flashing in his brother’s eyes, “She requires good breeding.” 

“What, are you afraid she’s going to turn into a pig?” Kieran sneered. Nanny Armstrong was affronted. 

“Are we ready for dinner, Nanny Armstrong?” Mr. Branson cut across before either of them could start pointing fingers. Sybbie didn’t need to see any more fighting. 

“…Mr. Branson.” Was Nanny Armstrong’s only reply, turning away stoically to show them out the door. Tom noted her fists were clenched, knuckles white. 

Downstairs they went for pre-dinner cocktails, though Kieran had never drank a cocktail in his life and probably wasn’t going to start now. As Tom reached the sitting room parlor, he opened it to find a conversation brought to a screeching halt as the Crawley family paused in their smiles and laughter to remember the bitter gloom over their house. Sybbie did not smile, did not make to run to her aunts sitting upon the far couch or her uncles clustered about the whiskey table where Carson and Andy poured drinks. Instead, they all remained stiff and stoic, staring at each other and waiting for the next to make the first move. 

“… Cheery lot.” Kieran muttered, clearly overheard in the dead silence that followed. Tom tisked at him with narrowed eyes. Now was not the time to be making jabs. 

Robert and Cora were in their finest, pleased to be dining with both their remaining daughters and their husbands again. It would be the first time that Edith and Mary sat at a table, married with both their spouses for viewing. As a result, Henry and Bertie were finally getting to know each other as they shared Southsides- a common Prohibition gem made with gin, lime, mint, and a simple syrup. Tom would have liked to join them but here he was stuck in the corner with Kieran and a frightened child who clung to his neck. 

He suddenly felt like an outcast again, for the first time since 1919. 

Andy approached with a silver tray bearing two cocktails, and thought Tom took his up at once with a warm ‘thank you’, Kieran looked very confused indeed. 

“Eh…” Kieran said, “Do you have beer in this place?”  
Andy did a double take, unsure if he’d heard right. 

“B-beer, sir?” Andy had probably never served beer in a sitting room before. God bless the lad. 

“We’ve got it.” Tom assured him before the poor footman could dissolve into a heart attack, “It’s in the cellar.” 

“Right away, sir.” Andy mumbled, sitting down his tray upon a side table to head out the sitting room door. Mr. Carson watched him go, wary. Tom took a hearty swallow of his Southside, sighing. Sybbie was unnaturally quiet tonight, cowering as she hid in his neck. 

~*~

Downstairs, Andy fled like the devil was after him to fetch Kieran Branson his beer. He’d never seen beer in the cellar before- he wasn’t even allowed to go down there really- and stopped first in the kitchen to see what Mrs. Patmore would have to say. With Barrow gone and Mr. Carson stuck upstairs, she was top dog. She made a rather imposing figure, barking orders at Daisy and Gertie to get the first savories ready for the nights diner. Tonight they would be dining on oysters a la Russe for an hors d’oeuvres. They would have a consommé olga for a soup, poached salmon in mousseline sauce for fish, chicken lyonaisse and vegetable marrow farci for the entrees, and punch romaine. Then they would have lamb with mint sauce and chateau potatoes for the removes course, and waldorf pudding with peaches in chartreuse jelly for desert. Finally they would have coffee and cheese. 

This was, of course, assuming no one killed each other before dinner was through. 

“Well-?” Andy nearly tripped over Ms. Baxter as he rounded the corner into the kitchen. At Mrs. Patmore’s side table, Baxter, Anna, and Bates were all clustered around curious as to how the dinner would go down. 

“Mr. Branson- that is, the brother- wants beer.” Andy said in a rush, straightening his livery and wiping sweat from his brow- god this kitchen was roasting! 

“Beer?” Baxter repeated, confused. 

“Do we even have beer?” Andy wondered aloud. 

“Of course we have beer!” Mrs. Patmore barked, “It’s in the cellar, the far back corner, take Mr. Carson’s key from his office hook and be done with it! Away with you!” 

And off Andy scurried to complete his quest. 

Daisy watched him go, bitter and pressed for time as she sorted oysters with a marinated tomato topping full of scallion, lemon juice, horseradish, tabasco, sugar, and vodka. After each scoop of topping, Daisy had to follow it up with a quick blob of caviar so that the peach oysters were suddenly painted black and red. 

“This is ridiculous.” Daisy griped aloud to anyone who would listen at this point, “Why don’t they just accept that some people aren’t born like others.” 

“Oh, don’t you start.” Mrs. Patmore scowled, pouring the consommé olga into a fine porcelain bowl covered in paintings of hunting dogs. 

“What has Thomas really done wrong but love someone?” Daisy wondered, “Is it so awful in the end, when you really come down to it-?” 

“Daisy-“ Anna paused mid-sip of tea, “You can’t change society that easily.” 

“Thomas knew the consequences when he started out on this affair.” Mr. Bates added in honest warning, “He made a mistake, he got careless and was caught. Now he must live with the results.” 

“But what does it say about us as a culture if we damn love and let cruelty reign?” Daisy demanded, to which no one had an answer but Mrs. Patmore who barked at her like a drill sergeant. 

“Daisy!” She commanded, nearly making Daisy drop her caviar spoon. “There is nothing you can do, except your job. Now please. Do it!” She snapped. 

Daisy looked from Mrs. Patmore who was fuming to Mr. Bates and Anna who were both content with their tea. Only Baxter looked miserable, staring glumly into her cup like it were a well offering her answers. 

Daisy couldn’t stand it.  
She removed her apron. 

“I’m going up there to talk to them.” She said aloud. 

“No!” Several voices cried out. 

Andy had returned from the basement, carried a tankard full of foaming beer with him, but he plopped it onto the crammed kitchen island to grab Daisy with both hands upon her upper arms so that she could not leave the kitchen without forcibly removing him. 

“Daisy, no!” He beseeched, staring imploringly into her eyes. Daisy flushed, memories of sneaked kisses and hastily squeezes making her thoughts turn impure, “You can’t do that, it’d be the end of your career and more!” 

“Living a life under a guise of persecution and cruelty would be worse!” Daisy warned. Andy refused to be swayed. 

“If you go up there now, you’ll ruin any chance Thomas and Mr. Branson might have of happiness. Please… I beg you. Stay down here.” He murmured, finally dropping his hands. 

The kitchen waited in avid anticipation, all eyes on Daisy to see what she would do or say. Mrs. PAtmore looked close to having an anxiety attack while Gertie clutched a sauce pot to her chest. 

“… Andy, you have to do something.” Daisy begged, “Please.” 

“Andy,” Mr. Bates warned again, setting down his teacup this time to rise up out of his chair and onto his cane. Andy looked over his shoulder, nervous. “There’s nothing you can do. There’s nothing any of us can do-“ Mr. Bates gestured about the room. “The best thing we can do for Thomas and Mr. Branson is to let the family have their quarrel. Whatever will be will be.” 

But all this tender thinking was brought to a screeching halt as Mr. Carson appeared in the doorway of the kitchen looking ready to bite off the first head he saw. Poor chances was that head happened to belong to one Andy Parker. 

“Where have you been with that ruddy beer?” Mr. Carson demanded, noting how everyone seemed to be lolly gagging in the kitchen. 

“Mr. Carson-!” Daisy spoke up before anyone could shush her, “We have to do something! How do we keep this dinner from turning into a disaster? What do we do?” 

Mr. Carson was about to retort with something hot until he noted that even Mrs. Patmore looked pale. Despite the first courses being ready to go and every servant with hands to the pump, there was still an incredibly nervous air. 

Mr. Carson pursed his lips, falling back on the only line of strength he’d ever known: Work. 

“We do our job, nothing more.” Mr. Carson instructed each and every one of them, before taking up the tankard of ale and pushing it back into Andy’s sweating hands. “Now get up there… and serve this ruddy beer.” 

 

~*~

Dinner that night was going agonizingly slow, punctuated only by Kieran’s confusion on how to eat with upper class silverware while Bertie regaled the whole table with talk of Greece and Brancaster. Tom’s mind was drifting away, carrying him across snowy English hillside to a quaint little cottage not too far away. 

He pictured Thomas curled up on the Carson’s couch. He’d be asleep, underneath a quilt while Mrs. Hughes made dinner and a fire crackled in the hearth. 

The thought soothed Tom in that ugly moment. 

Midway between their helpings of vegetable marrow farci, Tom was caught off guard as Bertie finally addressed him. The entire table had been avoiding talking to the two Branson men, so that their far corner was practically a world unto itself while the other end was all about Europe and holidays. 

“Did you have a productive visit today?” Bertie asked Tom. Tom did a double take, snapping up out of thoughts of Thomas asleep. 

“I did.” Tom admitted, for though he hadn’t accomplished his original goal he still felt good about his end results, “It was good to see him again… he’s had such a hard week, I wanted to cheer him up a bit.” 

The table drew quiet. Mary looked sullenly away from them all to stare at Mr. Carson who stood like a statue by the serving table waiting to dish out punch romaine. 

“Looked a bit peaky t’me.” Kieran sneered. 

“He’s always been pale.” Tom tried for a joke, eager to keep his temper down if possible. 

“An Englishman’s curse.” Bertie offered with a helpful smile. Tom was grateful for it, and tipped his head in appreciation. 

“Who did you see, Daddy?” Sybbie asked, curious. 

“Thomas.” Tom admitted, for what was the harm in telling her? “I went to the Carson’s today with Uncle Kieran. Thomas is staying there for a while. He’s catching up on a bit of rest. He wants to build Mr. Carson a shed, and I think I’m going to help him.” 

“Sounds like a good spring project.” Bertie said. Tom was determined to keep the conversation light even while Sybbie kept unnaturally quiet. He wondered if she’d overheard something. 

“It’ll keep us all occupied and that’s what matters.” Tom agreed, speaking directly to Bertie now. “Mrs. Hughes is making a cotton garden.” 

“She’s growing cotton?” Sybbie wondered. 

“No, darlin-“ Kieran chuckled, swallowing a mouth full of beer. “Cotton gardens are for vegetables ye eat. Onions, turnips, cabbage, potatoes an the like.” He grinned down at her. 

“Oh…” Sybbie mumbled, hands laced upon her lap. Goodness she sounded depressed! 

“Daisy wants to grow artichokes.” Tom added, for while he’d visited with Thomas they’d looked over his letters. “She’s begged Thomas to get Mrs. Hughes to plant them.” 

“Daisy?” Bertie asked. 

“The cook’s assistant.” Tom explained, still taken aback when he realized the upstairs lot were completely unaware just as to who was cooking their dinner. 

He looked down at Sybbie, finding her still quite miserable, “Darlin’ what’s the matter? You’ve been awfully quiet.” 

 

It was the fact that Sybbie did not automatically answer him which made Tom tense up. The fact that Sybbie had never behaved in such a way before- it made his toes curl in his leather shoes as he laid a hand gently across the back of her chair. Upon her many Shakespeare tomes, Sybbie was eye level with the rest of the table; Tom could play with the soft hairs at the back of her neck. 

“Everyone is unhappy.” Sybbie mumbled at long last. Tom leaned in, comforting his daughter as best he could at the dinner table. 

“Well, Darlin…” He murmured, toying with her hair, “It’s like I told you-“ 

“Like you told her?” Robert cut across, a flash of horror going across his weathered face, “You told her about this?” 

“I did.” Tom would not go back on his initial judgement. He did not regret his decision. “I told her the truth, because it’s a good and happy truth. Love is not a bad thing.” 

“Oh my god.” Robert muttered burying his head in his hand. 

Carson attempted to distract them all by changing out the courses and serving them all romaine punch. It would do very little good- merely supplying their bitter crew with more alcohol instead of solutions. Sybbie’s punch was served in a petite flowering cup, rather different than the adult’s silver bowls. Tom had a sneaking suspicion she was eating nothing more than simple orange sherbet, which would have usually delighted Sybbie. Tonight, however, she did not touch her cleanser. 

“…I love Thomas.” Sybbie spoke up, mournfully. Her sad tone brought an ugly pause to the whole table, making it difficult to swallow the punch. Tom did not touch his own course, focusing fully on his daughter. Kieran was much the same, not one for cleanser courses and more concerned for his niece than keeping up airs. “I’m happy Daddy loves him. I think it’s nice.” The nervous edge to her voice made Tom see red. 

His daughter should not be afraid to speak her mind to her own family. 

“You’re a sweet child, Sybbie.” Bertie spoke up from across the table. Tom appreciated him now more than ever, taking a small sip of his romaine punch, “And you’re right, it is nice. Love is always a good thing, that’s why it ought to be cherished.” 

Edith pursed her lips, thinking over every word carefully as she put in her two cents, “Sometimes it’s… complicated.” She admitted, unable to deny the facts or her confusion at them, “But that’s why we must try and… protect it.” She supplied. 

“I couldn’t have said it better myself.” Bertie praised his wife.  
Mary scowled. 

“Well I could.” She snapped. She seemed quite angry that the group of them should speak to Sybbie on this issue if they weren’t taking her side. Mary spoke to Sybbie as gently as she could, but it was obvious she was angry, “Your father doesn’t love Barrow, sybbie.” 

Sybbie blinked.  
“He’s confused.” Mary said. 

“No. I’m not.” Tom ground out, doing his damned best to keep his tone level. “I do love Thomas, quite a lot, and that’s not going to change. Your Aunt Mary is upset because I’m not behaving in a way that she wants me to behave. She’s forgotten who I am as adverse to who she thinks I am.” 

“Can you even spell adverse?” Mary muttered bitterly into her romaine punch. 

“Mary.” Cora grumbled. 

“A-s-s-h-o-l-e?” Tom offered. Mary nearly choked on her punch, glaring at him from across the table. 

“Tom.” Henry warned. 

Sybbie shifted atop her Shakespeare volumes, clearly growing nervous. She still was yet to touch her sherbet. 

“Ah love…” Kieran turned a bit in his chair to better address Sybbie, “Don’t take on so.” He reached out, gently touching the bottom of her chin so that she had to meet his gaze. The fear in her eyes made Tom sick to his stomach. “Yer a Branson, our lot hold to family. We always have an’ we always will. Eh?” She nodded in agreement, “Yer an Irish girl, ye love from yer heart. An it hurts you t’see pain. But I promise you: pain is fleeting, heaven lasts always.” 

Sybbie turned, looking Tom full in the face. “Do you love Thomas?” She asked softly. 

“Yes. I do.” Tom reiterated for good measure, stroking her hair carefully. 

“Then why is everyone mad?” 

“Because Thomas and I are both men.” Tom explained as gently as he could, “And there are some people out there who think men who love other men… are bad.” He paused, “And your Aunt Mary is trying to protect Thomas and me from them. Because those men can be very mean.” 

Mary stiffened. Tom realized she must have been expecting Tom to proclaim her one of the bad men, not their defender. 

But Tom would not allow his anger to blind him, not when he knew Mary’s heart to be a good one. He’d seen fear up close and afar before. He knew when it came to call. 

“But you’re not bad!” Sybbie urged plaintively, her tone rising with anxiety, “And neither is Thomas! No one is bad!” she begged. 

“I know that!” Tom assured her at once, “And so does Thomas— that’s all that matters—“ 

“That’s not what I heard!” Sybbie blurted out.  
She clapped a hand over her mouth, eyes wide. 

Tom froze, eyes narrowing. 

He considered how Sybbie had been acting strangely all night, clinging to him and barely talking while she ate meager bites of her dinner. What had she heard to cause her such distress? Tom leaned in, noting that there were tears clinging to the bottom of Sybbie’s eyelashes threatening to fall. 

“…What did you hear?” Tom asked, carefully. Sybbie’s bottom lip trembled dangerously as she bowed her head again. Kieran looked stricken with concern. Even Mary’s bad attitude had dropped, her eyes careful upon her niece’s face. 

“I… I heard… the servant’s talking.” Sybbie admitted. 

Carson’s head snapped up, glaring at Andy who stood on the opposite side of the table. Tom looked around, glancing at Andy, who seemed quite ready to shit his pants with everyone staring at him. He shook his head adamantly— whatever had been heard had clearly not been born by his lips. 

“What did you hear them say, darling?” Cora asked, using her sweetest tones, “You can tell us, you don’t have to be afraid.” 

“I heard… the ladies who wear black… say that Thomas hurt himself because he was sad. That he…” Sybbie’s lip trembled wildly, “That he cut his wrists. That he was going to die.” 

She almost started to cry. At this everyone jumped in, in a panic. 

“No!” Tom cut across her at once, laying a hand across her stomach so despite the fact that they were in separate chairs he was still hugging her. “No, Darlin- he’s not going to die.” 

“Thomas is perfectly fine, Miss Sybbie.” Carson urged. “He’s at my house, he’s quite happy.” 

“Sybbie, darling- you shouldn’t worry about this.“ Cora protested, only to be cut off by Robert. 

“I promise you.” Robert said in his warmest tones, “Thomas is quite safe and well.” 

“But not from us.” Sybbie blubbered. “And not from himself.” 

She broke away from Tom’s hold. Everyone watched, gaping as Sybbie fled the dining hall. Tom jerked out of his chair as did Kieran, followed swiftly by Robert who tried to catch Sybbie only to have his hand slip through thin air. Her peach dress whipped through the dining room door, and that was that. Her plaintive crying could be hear diminishing as she ran up the gallery steps. Tom’s heart pounded in his chest- he took a step around his seat, abandoning his dinner to make after his daughter. 

“Now see what you’ve done!” Robert cursed, bitterly. “You’ve drug a child into this who had no business knowing!” 

“Really?!” Kieran demanded, hotly, “It looked to me like all the heat came from that corner over there!” Kieran gestured angrily to Mary whose icy composure was back up in a flash. 

“As if I care what your lot thinks.” Mary said in the snootiest voice she could manage. Whether she was talking about the Irish, the lower class, or people outside the family- it was difficult to say. 

“You think you’re the Princess of Whales, don’t you!” Kieran sneered, beer making his tongue slip, “But mark me this, you’re nothing more than a spoiled little rich girl whose never worked a day in her life! Yer maid has more honor than you do!” 

“Be silent sir!” Robert commanded, outraged that anyone would cross his daughter’s honor before him. 

“I’ve had damn enough of this horse shite.” Tom cursed, and left the dining room. 

He did not care for Kieran’s attitude or Mary’s feelings. He did not care about Robert’s needs to uphold honor or Carson’s desperation for order and calm. All he cared about in that moment as he mounted the gallery stairs was Sybbie. Sybbie, his most cherished possession. His Irish splendor. His eternal link to Sybil, the only woman he’d ever loved. 

Tom stormed down the gallery floor, bound for the nursery. He opened the door, finding Nanny Armstrong on her knees before Sybbie who was upon the playroom sofa, whimpering into a silk handkerchief. George was no where to be seen- probably having his own dinner in the bedroom to garner Sybbie a small amount of privacy. 

Nanny Armstrong, for all her strict policies, brushed Sybbie’s hair with sweetest care, cupping her sodden cheeks with strong fingers. 

“Shush now…” Nanny Armstrong whispers, “There there… When adults argue, we must learn to remember that love always stays. That no mean words change the foundation of family.” 

This wasn’t strictly true, but Tom would not illuminate Sybbie to the horrors of losing ones family through heartache just yet. Instead he made his presence known, stepping around Nanny Armstrong to brush his own hand through his daughter’s hair. She was trembling avidly. 

“Sybbie.” Tom whispered. She looked up; her tears ate at him, burning him like a hot metal brand twisting into the sinews of his flesh. 

“Daddy…” She whimpered, reaching up her hands to drop her soiled handkerchief onto the couch. She let out another keening whine, her crying renewed; Tom picked her up at once, letting her cry into his shoulder. 

He rocked her for a moment, murmuring softly into her hair as Nanny Armstrong picked up her soiled handkerchief and stood back up on her feet. Tom offered her a hand, helping her to rise despite her stiff corset and harsh shoes. 

She looked exhausted in that moment, for once Tom saw the woman instead of the role. 

“Mr. Branson.” She warned, “She needs to learn how to self soothe-“ 

But the idea made Tom sick, and he made a bee line for the nursery door. 

 

In the privacy of his own room, Tom kicked off his shoes and hid with Sybbie upon his bed. There, nestled against the headboard, pillows, and duvet, he allowed Sybbie to cry into his neck and slowly fall to sleep. Her peach dress was wrinkled, in need of a good wash. She’d missed her nightly bath and would surely be groggy come morning without a full tummy to sleep. All of these cares came second to her become soothed, and so Tom rocked her to sleep in his arms, murmuring against her temple as he kissed her softly by her ear. 

_“Where Lagan streams sings lullabies, there blows a lily fair…”_ His singing voice was atrocious, the only real comfort coming from the sentiment of his love beneath. _“The twilight gleam is in her eye, the night is on her hair…”_

The night was on Sybbie’s hair too, pale moonlight offering dim illumination to his bedroom as a soft fire turned to embers in the hearth. 

There was no point in returning her to the nursery. Not when she would only be made to ‘self soothe’ on a topic that terrified her. 

So it was that, as Sybbie slept, Tom pulled off her shoes and dress, tucking them neatly upon the top of his desk. He dressed in pajamas, stoking his fire a bit and making sure that his window was latched securely. The snow was falling- but lightly. Soon it would stop completely and spring would renew in full force. 

Tom climbed back into bed with Sybbie, pulling the covers down so that he could cover them both. Nestled against his chest, Sybbie began to snore softly as Tom covered her with an arm. His other arm went under his pillows, supporting both their heads as he closed his eyes and tried to think of pleasant things. 

He tried to imagine Thomas on Sybbie’s other side, protecting her from the other side with an arm over her, holding to Tom’s waist. Between the two of them, Sybbie would be warm and quiet, sleeping peacefully and secure in the knowledge that she was loved. That despite how the world changed, her family center never would. 

Nearly asleep, Tom faintly heard the door to the hallway open. He did not open his eyes, completely unaware as to who was peaking in on him or why. 

They crossed the room (whoever they were), collected Sybbie’s shoes and dress, and left closing the door behind them. It must have been the Nanny wondering where her charge was. 

Her charge was safe in her father’s arms. 

 

The next morning, Tom woke up to find Sybbie still asleep next to him, and rose carefully to shave and dress while Sybbie continued to sleep. Sybbie woke up halfway through, blinking blearily in curiosity as Tom drug a razor down his check and over his neck. Inch by inch, soft brown scruff was replaced by clean smooth skin. Tom toweled off his face, smiling pleasantly at his daughter as he came around and gently sat down on the bed beside her. 

She sat up better in bed, reaching up with groggy hands to gently touch his cheeks. Tom let her feel the dampness, the smoothness. She touched her own cheeks, comparing them. Tom kissed her good morning upon her brow- no words spoken between them. 

 

Tom carried Sybbie in his arms, fully dressed while she wore nothing but her under slip; he passed Anna in the hallway, who did a double take at Sybbie’s lack of dress before grinning at Tom. 

“Good morning Miss Sybbie. Good morning Mr. Branson.” Anna said pleasantly. 

“G’mornin’.” Sybbie mumbled, burying her face back into Tom’s neck to hide from the world. 

“Anna-“ Tom caught her carefully, reminded of how Sybbie had claimed that she’d over heard ‘the ladies who wear black’. That had to be Anna and Baxter- who else wore black like they did in the house anymore. “I need to speak to you about something, I’ll come find you later.” 

“As you wish, Mr. Branson.” She said, dipping her head, “I’ll be downstairs if you need me.” And with that she whisked off to the green baize door. 

 

Sybbie dressed, with the nanny tutting over the fact that she hadn’t slept in her ‘proper’ bed or taken a ‘proper’ bath. Tom paid very little attention to all of it, merely hanging in the back corner of the nursery as George rocked on his horse and watched Sybbie be dressed in a simple maroon frock with lace at her collar and sleeves. Her hair was combed, her black shiny shoes were buckled over smooth white stockings, and a buret was snapped behind her left ear. The entire time she watched Tom in her mirror, smiling hesitantly at him every so often till the Nanny had deemed her ready to go down and had passed her back off to Tom. 

Tom took her hand, and off the two of them went back down the stairs. 

 

Breakfast that morning was set to a tense mood, with Robert, Henry, and Bertie all silent over their eggs and bacon. Mr. Carson looked sour as well, but Tom paid no mind to it as he filled Sybbie’s plate and took her to the table. Perched upon her Shakespeare, Sybbie ate quickly, clearly still hungry from last night. Tom sat beside her, carefully sipping upon a cup of black coffee splashed with sugar. 

“… Did you sleep well, Sybbie?” Robert spoke up?” 

“Yes, Donk.” She mumbled after swallowing a mouthful of egg. “Daddy took care of me.” 

“Well.” Robert murmured, warmth in his voice though he gave her a slightly disapproving voice, “Let’s try to sleep in our own bed next time.” 

“It was a special circumstance.” Tom reminded him. Robert said nothing more, returning his gaze to the morning paper. 

“Daddy…” Sybbie spoke up, “I want to visit Thomas.” 

Tom nodded, for in truth he’d been intending to go back to the Carson’s cottage today as well. “Alright.” Tom agreed, “You can come with me. We’ll go help Mrs. Hughes with her cotton garden.” 

“Are you quite sure that’s a good idea?” Robert warned, lowering his paper slightly to catch Tom’s eye. Tom took another sip of coffee. 

“Of course.” Tom said, starting on a bit of toast and egg. 

“I want to bring him flowers so he feels better.” Sybbie explained. 

“What a sweet gesture.” Bertie said approvingly. “I’m sure he’ll be very touched by them… but may I go with you? I’d like to meet the man outside of a formal setting.” 

“Of course!” Tom repeated, breaking into a grin. Henry said absolutely nothing, seemingly captivated by his paper. Tom had to wonder what on earth had gone on in the dining hall after he’d left after Sybbie- he had a feeling Kieran had spent the rest of his time insulting Mary to the point of angering Henry. 

“May I request Mrs. Hughes be given adequate time to prepare a lunch for the Marquess of Hexam?” Mr. Carson spoke up in a drawl. 

“Nonsense.” Tom urged, for Mrs. Hughes was just one woman and if she was going to try to hold up to Mrs. Patmore’s standards she was going to work herself to death. “We’ll take a picnic from the kitchen and make a day of it.” 

“That sounds like great fun.” Bertie agreed. “Henry?” 

“No.” Henry said shortly, turning a page in his paper. That was all he said, nothing more. 

“Very well.” Bertie tried not to take it to heart, instead smiling at Sybbie. “Sybbie?” She nodded eagerly. 

“And when can we expect you back?” Robert spoke up warily. 

“I suppose when we’re good and ready.” Tom supplied. “Before dinner. We may stay a while, take a walk-“ 

“A walk to the train station perhaps?” Robert’s voice had an icy edge to it. Tom froze, fork full of egg halfway to his mouth. 

He knew the implication, but avoided it. 

“Kieran’s not leaving until tomorrow.” Tom reminded Robert, for Kieran’s visit was only a weekend one. 

“And when he does will you go with him?” 

“Well.” Tom said, setting his fork down with a soft ‘clink’ “I think I’d better talk to Thomas about it first. And of course, Sybbie-“ Tom looked down on his daughter. Sybbie was eating slice after slice of orange, “It’s not something I’m going to decide on a whim.” 

But Robert didn’t look sure and Tom found himself growing irritated with the lot of him. Did they think he was an idiot—? 

_But you were going to leave_ , a nasty voice warned him, sounding oddly like his mother, _You even packed a valise._

Tom shook the voice from his mind, refusing to think about the rest of it. 

 

After a short and tense breakfast, Tom took Sybbie downstairs in order to fetch not only a picnic for lunch but flowers from the greenhouse. Sybbie picked Thomas out a bouquet of Jacqueline Postills and Winter Beauties. The splash of pink and white was clutched tight in her fist as they traveled back to the house, crunching across the snow till they arrived back to the stoop. They would go in through the servant’s door to save time, and rang the doorbell like regular laundry men hand in hand. 

When the door opened, it was a maid, and she let them in bemusedly so that Sybbie could skip down the servant’s hall. 

She came around the kitchen door, the center of attention as Mrs. Patmore and Daisy both stopped in their work cleaning up breakfast to fawn over her. Tom hung back in the doorway, well aware that he was probably not the most popular man downstairs at the moment. 

“Miss Sybbie!” Mrs. Patmore gloated, “Such beautiful flowers you’ve got there- are they for me?” 

“They’re for Thomas.” Sybbie explained, “I need a picnic basket. I am going to have lunch with him! And Daddy! And Uncle Bertie!” She added, ticking the guests off on her fingers. 

Mrs. Patmore scoffed, looking up to see Tom in the doorway. She glared at him, turning her back on him to instead fish for an adequate hamper in the pantry. 

When had she been given keys to the pantry? Was that Thomas’ doing? Tom highly doubted Mrs. Hughes or Mr. Carson had relinquished the keys. 

“Mr. Branson!” Daisy gleamed, her dark brown eyes full of mischief. 

“We need a picnic lunch.” Tom explained with a small smile, “I’m taking Sybbie and Lord Hexam to the Carson’s today to see Thomas.” 

“I bet you want something sweet to eat-“ Mrs. Patmore heaved an enormous basket onto the kitchen island counter, fetching a cannoli from a cooling rack by the stove. She offered it to Sybbie with a sugary grin, “How about a nice cannoli?” 

“Thank you!” Sybbie took it at once, all but cramming it in her mouth so that the corners of her lips were suddenly dotted with white cream. Tom fetched his handkerchief, wiping her face before she could make more of a mess. 

“Such a sweet girl.” Mrs. Patmore cooed, always pleased when someone ate her cooking, “You need to eat more! You’re as skinny as a whippit!” She began to pile things into the basket- plates, cutlery and glasses which she snapped down by leather straps. “I’ll fix you up something cold- how about some corned beef sandwiches? I have some camembert you can take and pickled vegetables.” 

“Nothing too wild.” Tom assured her, for he was certain Bertie wouldn’t mind if their meal was less than glamorous. 

“I wasn’t talking to you.” Mrs. Patmore snapped, glaring as she resumed stuffing the picnic basket. “You’re lucky I still feed you after all the trouble you’ve put us through!” 

“And I’m very grateful, I assure you.” Tom said at once, knowing when it was best not to pick a fight. He was a brave man- he could take a punch on the chin…. but he had zero desire to go to war with Beryl Patmore. 

“Oh you’re grateful alright!” Mrs. Patmore huffed, waving hammish arms about as Daisy snickered and continued mixing a dough which must have been biscuits for tea later on. “I can imagine all your gratefulness can do!” 

And at this, she put on airs, straining her voice: _“Oh Thomas would you mind helping me out of m’shoes? I’m so grateful! Oh Thomas would you mind helping me with my jacket- and a little more-? And a little more-? I hate to keep you, you must be so tired. You can sleep in my bed if you want!”_

“Well it went a bit more romantically than that.” Tom assured her. “I didn’t jump straight from my shoes and jacket to frolicking.” 

“No, you still had trousers to contend with, didn’t you?” Mrs. Patmore snapped angrily, glaring at him eye to eye. She slammed her hands on the counter, making several dishes jump. Sybbie watched, wide eyed, practically hiding behind Daisy’s apron while she received another cannoli for distraction. 

“Mark me, Tom Branson, if I wasn’t a god fearing woman I’d have taken a rolling pin to your head by now.” she snapped. 

“Does it make any difference if I actually love him?” Tom demanded. Gertie froze at the sink, all the blood draining from her face. She looked horrified at the thought of two men loving one another, but Tom was too brave to care. 

Mrs. Patmore caught Gertie’s eye, jerking her beefy neck for Gertie to scoot off at once, probably on some meagre errand that didn't really warrant attention. 

“I don’t care if you’re ready to paint the ceiling of a church for him!” Mrs. PAtmore hissed, “Keep it to yourself! You’re going to traumatize my staff!” 

“Mrs. Patmore, I know you’re angry-“ 

“Oh you don’t know the half of it.” She huffed, returning her attentions to the picnic basket. “That boy had enough problems without you adding to them!” 

“Well I’m not trying to be a problem. I’m trying to be a solution-!” 

“Get out of my kitchen.” Mrs. Patmore snapped. “Leave.” 

Tom raised his hands defeatedly, reaching out for Sybbie who took his hand at once holding onto her third cannoli and her flower bouquet with the other. 

“No!” Mrs. Patmore sneered, warningly, “She can stay-!” She jerked her head to Sybbie, “You cannot! Go stand outside in the servant’s hall till I’m ready for you.” 

“Oh so it’s just me that’s been banned-?” 

“Something like that, yes.” Mrs. Patmore snapped, no longer even deigning to look at him. Tom let go of Sybbie’s hand, knowing she was quite safe in Daisy’s charge. As he made his way to the door, deciding he would probably relax at the servant’s table while he waited, Daisy caught him off guard by speaking up. 

“I’m so sorry for what you’ve had to endure, Mr. Branson.” Daisy said. “I support you, just so you know. We all do.” 

Mrs. Patmore huffed irritably at the notion, “Even Mrs. Patmore.” Daisy added cheekily. 

“Daisy finish that dough before it finishes you!” Mrs. Patmore snapped angrily. Daisy returned to her mixing bowl at once, unable to keep the grin off her face. 

“… Thank you, Daisy.” Tom murmured, catching her eye again. “Your kindness means more than you know. To both of us-“ 

“Out!” Mrs. Patmore shouted angrily, pointing a hammish finger to the door of the kitchen. 

“Alright! Alright!” Tom yipped, ducking out before she could lob something at him like an iron skillet or a stew pot. “Christ in heaven-“ he muttered angrily. 

Yet even as Tom left the kitchen bound for the servant’s hall, he was brought to a pause by a figure in black coming down the stairs: Baxter. 

It was no secret in their house that Baxter and Thomas were incredibly close. No one knew much about it- their relationship was certainly different than Thomas’ had been with O’Brien. Baxter’s devotion to Thomas seemed pure, kind, one steeped in love rather than advantage. Tom had even heard whispers from Bates that Moseley was incredibly jealous of Baxter’s undying affection to Thomas. 

Apparently the man had still been under the impression Thomas was for women until Christmas when Bates had illuminated him to the full situation. 

Baxter spotted him as she came down the stairs, a pair of Cora’s shoes in hand that clearly needed mending at the soles. She paused on the final step, a soft expression dawning upon her lined face. She pursed her lips, looking incredibly sad in that moment. 

“Ms. Baxter.” Tom murmured in greeting. 

“… Mr. Branson.” Baxter replied. 

“Are you heading to the boot room?”  
“Yes.”  
“I’ll join you.” 

Together, the pair of them walked side by side, silent in the halls while Mrs. Patmore crowed from the kitchen about how Sybbie was ‘such a good girl’ for eating all of her cooking. Content, knowing his daughter was in good hands, Tom shut the door to the boot room after Baxter so that they were enclosed in semi-privacy. 

He looked over his shoulder and found Baxter paused with pensive worry at the work table. She glanced at him, her fingers dancing upon the edges of Cora’s black leather shoes. 

“…Do you want to tear me down to size?” Tom asked, “Now’s your opportunity if—“ but the word ‘any’ never left his mouth. 

Baxter surprised him, stepping in to hug him tightly about the neck.  
Tom froze, shocked. 

It wasn’t common for English women to hug people that were beyond their kin or marriage. Such an expression of emotion was often frowned upon in a conservative society… but Baxter didn’t seem to care. So great was her relief that it momentarily overcame her sense, making her weak to impulses. 

Tom reached up and gently hugged her back. He noticed a gold chain at her neck- she was wearing the locket Thomas had given her for Christmas. Tom wondered if she ever took it off. 

 

“Oh I beg of you.” Baxter murmured into his shoulder. “I beg of you don’t hurt him.” 

“I don’t intend to do anything but love him.” Tom replied. Baxter pulled back to look at him with glowing praise. 

“Forgive me.” Baxter murmured, stepping way to return to her shoes. “I know that seemed rather… impulsive… of me.” 

“I think I can look past it.” Tom teased, perching upon the edge of the work table. 

“I heard you visited him yesterday.” Baxter said, taking up her polishing cloth and beginning to buff at the toe of the shoe, “How is he?”

“Bad.” Tom admitted, for he could not deny even in his optimism that Thomas had been shaken. “I’m going to visit him again today with Lord Hexam and Sybbie. Will you come with us? He’d love to see you. He cares for you deeply.” 

“Oh…” Baxter sighed, never the one to boost her own confidence, “I don’t know about that.” 

“Well I know.” Tom murmured, “And I think you do too.” 

Baxter paused mid-buff, glancing around at him. “Let me ask her ladyship. I don’t want to upset her. This has disrupted the whole family, as you know.” 

“I know.” Tom agreed, “But it had to be done.” 

“I’ll see what she says.” Baxter assured him. “When I bring her back her shoes, I’ll ask.” 

“We’ll be heading off around eleven.” Tom explained. “We’re taking a picnic lunch.” 

Baxter nodded, getting a little more comfortable on her work bench as Tom slid down to sit beside her. 

“I confess, I was shocked when I was told the truth.” Baxter said, “You know, he called me to tell me I’d received a promotion and burst into tears over the phone. It terrified me. I thought he was going to kill himself.” 

“Mary was scaring the hell out of him. You know how frightened he is of Carson.” Tom sighed, leaning heavily with an elbow upon the table. 

“Mm.” Baxter turned the shoes about, now starting on the hell. She buffed away every inch or evidence of dirt. “He was the same way with his own father. I think older men instinctively terrify him.” 

Tom glanced at Baxter, wondering at how she knew all of this. 

“… How do you know about Thomas’ family?” Tom wondered. 

“I grew up with them.” Baxter explained with a faint smile. “I was good friends with his sister in childhood.” 

Tom sat there, quite amazed at the goldmine he’d found. He’d imagined Thomas and Baxter had merely bonded because of Baxter’s obvious generous and kind nature. Now he saw clearly- they were friends from childhood. 

“…So you knew his family relatively well.” Tom surmised. Baxter nodded, humming softly to herself. She fetched her button box, pausing their conversation as she pulled out a stiff wire like thread to begin threading a needle at the toe of Cora’s shoe. She worked meticulously, her stitches minuscule and tight. 

“What were they like?” Tom asked, his thoughts drifting ominously towards Thomas’ mother and her suicide. He wondered if Baxter knew how much guilt Thomas carried about that. 

“Mm.” She shrugged, unfazed, “Hardworking. Family orientated. I suppose like any other family. I was good friends with his older sister Margret. She was very smart. She could have been a doctor if only they allowed women to go that far in life. Instead she became a nurse.” 

“I hope she’s doing well.” Tom said, tone turning ominous, “But… I was rather talking about his parents.” 

“Oh.” Baxter paused, perhaps sensing what he was trying to ask. “I suppose you mean…” 

“Yes.” 

“Well, his father was pretty strict as I recall it, but so was my father and I never complained.” She admitted. “I think Thomas had it worse because he was different. His father wanted so much for him but everything just fell apart. It was very sad.” 

“Did his father abuse him?” Tom asked warily. Baxter sighed, lips pursed, her eyes narrowing as she turned back to look Tom steadily in the eye. 

The calm he found there slightly unnerved him. 

“You’re not the first person whose asked me that.” Baxter said, “But I’m afraid I can’t answer that question. Whatever occurred was behind closed doors, and not even Margret spoke on it.” 

Tom nodded, understanding that branch of conversation to be at a dead end. “What about his mother?” 

“Sad.” Baxter supplied, finishing the first shoe and starting with the second one, “I think Thomas is sad because she was sad. I think sadness runs in their family.” 

“I can see that.” Tom admitted. “How did she… you know…?” 

Baxter shuddered from the memory, unhappy. She paused in her sewing, turning a bit in her chair so that she and Tom could look at one another eye to eye. Tom heard echoes coming down the hall. Mrs. Patmore was scolding Gertie for something. 

“..If I tell you, will you promise never to tell him?” Baxter asked. “It wasn’t a quick death.” 

Tom nodded, an ominous squirm coming up through his stomach. He suddenly felt afraid, like he might feel the pain from the death instead of Thomas’ late mother. 

“…She grew sick.” Baxter admitted, drumming her sticky black fingers upon the table top, “She started… talking about things that couldn’t be. She hallucinated that her mother was haunting her. That… That Thomas was still there, but an infant. She kept demanding _‘what have you done with the baby’_? But of course… the baby was fourteen years old and long gone.” Baxter sighed. 

Tom pursed his lips, running fingers across the thin line he’d created.  
So it seemed that hallucinating under stress ran in Thomas’ blood. Had surrounded him in his womb. 

“Eventually, she got to where she couldn’t be trusted on her own. Thomas’ father was at his wits ends. He couldn’t tend to her, the children, and the shop. He didn’t know what he was going to do… I heard they were going to take her to Briarcliffe. But it never got to that point. She… well…” Baxter flushed, as if embarrassed. “You must promise to never ever tell Thomas about this.” 

“I promise.” Tom agreed. He doubted Thomas would benefit from any of this knowledge. 

“I never told him because I didn’t know how he’d be able to handle it.” Baxter admitted. Tom could concur. “You see… She had another baby, after Thomas left. A little boy, though he was small and sickly. I think she was pregnant before Thomas was cast out. He wasn’t born but a few months afterward. I think his birth really started her downward spiral.” Baxter paused, closing her eyes. She looked away, somber. 

“She… took the baby. And went to the roof of the house.” 

“Jesus god.” Tom groaned, burying his face in his hands. “Say she didn’t.” 

“She did.” Baxter said softly. “She was up there for hours- she’d locked the door to the attic, barred it. They couldn’t break through save for with an axe and by that time she was delirious. She kept saying that if she didn’t kill the baby, the baby would go the same way as Thomas. That she had to save her children. That she was a bad mother. That all of it was her fault. That god was punishing her for not doing right by her brood.” 

Tom felt a cold sweat break out at the back of his neck. He rubbed it gingerly, heart pounding in his throat. 

“Finally- men got through the door.” Baxter explained. “My father was among them, and Thomas’ father of course. They ran upstairs, and managed to pull the baby from her arms- It was unharmed.“ 

“Oh thank god.” Tom groaned, sighing into a hand. 

“But not her from the ledge.” Baxter said softly. “She threw herself off to avoid capture, and when she hit the ground several people saw… including me.” 

“Mary and Joseph-.” Tom shook his head, “Christ that’s foul.” 

“Her legs were shattered beyond repair.” Baxter admitted, “Bones were sticking out- I had nightmares for weeks about it. Her skull was cracked- blood filled her brain or so they said. I think that’s what killed herself in the end. She died later in the night but… it was awful.” Baxter whispered. “And she nearly killed that baby, Tom. I swear it.” 

Tom swallowed, an ugly tight knot in his throat. 

“The worst part is,” Baxter admitted, “She tried to crawl along the ground at first before she fainted. And… her nails scratched against the stone. I could hear it.” 

As if to illustrate her point, Baxter reached out and drug her fingernails upon the wood of the work table. 

Tom shuddered. 

“Anyways.” Baxter mumbled, returning somberly to her unfinished shoe. “That’s why I didn’t tell Thomas. After this summer, I have to admit sometimes I’m afraid he’ll go the same way as his mother and do something unthinkable. I don’t want to imagine he’d ever hurt the children-“ 

“He won’t.” Tom snapped, cutting Baxter off before she even finished that thought.  
He wouldn’t let it get that far.  
He refused. 

~*~

 

The sun shone down on Mrs. Hughes backyard, and after shoveling away the snow that had fallen the night before both she and Thomas set to work installing the parameters of her cotton garden. Using her rough layout plan, they divided the garden into ten stations for every vegetable Mrs. Hughes could get her hands on. Thomas took special pride in the fact that Mrs. Hughes had finally consented and agreed to get artichoke seeds though she warned _“I highly doubt this will work!”_ even as she planted them. Apparently they were a warm vegetable, and had had to be specially ordered from the grocers. 

Thomas had no idea Mrs. Hughes had received a phone call earlier. He’d been too busy working on his shed. 

Thomas was still in a good mood in spite of the pessimistic approach. He felt somehow enlightened, relieved, after Tom’s visit yesterday. While Mrs. Hughes planted, Thomas worked upon a raised platform, using a large spare piece of wood as his work station while he threw scraps together with nails and wood. With each foundation for the shed that he laid, another bubble of pride swelled in his chest. He imagined Carson’s face upon seeing his new shed- he would be pleased. 

Mrs. Hughes rose up, dusting dirt from her knees, and came around Thomas work station to observe him carefully shaving corner block to sharp edges. 

“You’re in a good mood today.” She murmured, patting Thomas lovingly on the small of the back. 

“I guess I am.” Thomas admitted with a small smile. “I don’t think I’m going to need any medicine today-“ 

“Well.” Mrs. Hughes sighed, patting his back again, “Let’s not got that far.”  
Thomas tried not to let her slight pessimism dim his own mood. 

The sound of birds twittering in the trees was overtaken by the churning of gravel on the road. Thomas looked up, hopeful that Tom might be coming to call again. The bizarre smirk upon Mrs. Hughes face gave Thomas pause. 

“Who is that?” Thomas asked as he spotted the sleek black car pulling around the bend. 

“Well I just don’t know.” Mrs. Hughes teased in a voice that stated she absolutely did know and was refusing to tell. Curious, Thomas dusted off his hands on his trousers and exited out the back garden, coming around the side of the house on a stepping stone path to observe- of course- Tom in the drivers seat. 

But he was not alone. 

“Oh-!” Thomas could not help but gape in delight, for out the car door came Sybbie clutching a small bouquet of squashed flowers. There were other people getting out of the car but Thomas did not care. He saw tears upon Sybbie’s face, noted that her mood became hysterical as she saw him- as if she’d imagined him dead or dying instead of mercifully alive. 

“Thomas-!” She howled his name, tripping over gravel as she ran up the Carson’s drive ahead of her father. Thomas crashed into the dirt on his knees, grabbing Sybbie right out of the air with both arms so that she was safely tucked against his chest. 

“What’s all this?” He demanded as she cried into his front. “Why are you crying? What’s happened?” He peppered her head with kisses, scooping her up beneath her knees with his other arm so that as he rose, he could take her with him and all but rock her in his hold. 

“They said you were dying!” Sybbie wailed into his shirt. Tom had gotten out of the door, closing the door behind him. 

“No, baby, no.” Thomas soothed, rocking her back and forth as she continued to hiccup into his neck. “Look at me! I’m alive!” He cried out, pulling back a bit so that she could see the forced cheery smile upon his face. “Hello! Good morning!” He teased, but Sybbie just began to whimper again. 

“Oh, my little Lagan love.” Thomas sighed, bitter. He placed a soft kiss upon her temple, rocking her a bit more. “Oh I missed you. I missed you so…” 

Tom came up, reaching up to gently brush hair out of Sybbie’s wet and flushed face. He reached around, holding Thomas in the small of the back; the pair of them stared at one another with soft understanding. It had never been their intention for Sybbie to become embroiled in these horrors. 

But she had, of course. Now they had to deal with it. 

 

It could have boiled down to plain rudeness, but it took Thomas a good thirty minutes of calming and soothing Sybbie before he really allowed himself to look about on his others guests. Trapped upon the couch with Tom, Thomas could not rise nor bow to Lord Hexam as was dutifully required. He could neither hug Baxter, which he wanted to do (though honestly he wouldn’t have acted on it even if he could). Instead he was pinned beneath a very heavy, very distressed five year old that clung and sobbed to his neck. Poor Mrs. Hughes was left to make all the introductions, practically aflutter at having a member of near royalty in her quaint country home. Baxter carried the picnic basket, which was deposited onto the kitchen table as Mrs. Hughes made a pot of tea and Lord Hexam took Mr. Carson’s armchair. Thomas was certain that if anyone else had ever tried to sit in it, Mr. Carson would have had a fit. A member of the upper class was the lone exception. At the kitchen table, Baxter and Mrs. Hughes pulled out dishes and silverware, eager to get on with lunch as the hour drew to noon. 

“If my mother knew I was feeding a Marquess lunch on cold meats and cheeses, she’d howl.” Mrs. Hughes tittered still heavily impressed that she was feeding a Marquess at all. 

“I assure you, I’ve had worse meals at finer tables.” Lord Hexam had a warm and jovial air that was neither smug nor boisterous. He reminded Thomas of Anna in some ways, quiet but well spoken and always with a smile in place. He had a sort of nervous look about him- but did not speak with a nervous disposition nor shake to the touch. He was almost like a man living in fear of the inevitable who’d already accepted it. 

“I appreciate you bringing a basket with you, Mr. Branson.” Mrs. Hughes said, “I’m sure Mr. Carson won’t mind if we used some of the wine he decanted.” 

Mrs. Hughes poked her head out of the kitchen, carrying a carving board that she might make to lay the camembert upon. She found Thomas and Tom curled upon the sofa, Sybbie squished between them and hiding her face into Thomas’ stomach. Despite having outgrown any nervous dispositions of youth, Sybbie now sucked upon her thumb, clearly frightened. 

Thomas didn’t know what to make of it; what on earth had Sybbie heard or seen to shake her so? He doubted that even Lady Mary would consent to frighten a child. This must have been something on accident- a word never meant to be overheard- a moment never meant to be glimpsed. 

Mrs. Hughes spotted him on the couch. Thomas wondered what she saw? Two men protected or traumatizing a child. Either way Mrs. Hughes paused, eyes locked on her living room and all that it held. 

Thomas glanced at Tom, finding him staring with deep yearning. Thomas returned it with a tiny smile, Tom’s arm around his neck on the back of the couch. They really ought to be entertaining Lord Hexam more than staring at one another… but Tom didn’t seem capable of speech in that moment. He was too entranced by the way Thomas held onto Sybbie. 

Thomas smiled, but could put no real emotion behind it. Instead he gave something rather like a wince and kept the rest to himself. 

 

Despite the undeniable chill in the air, there was too little room within the cottage to eat indoors. They took two fold out tables, which apparently Mrs. Hughes used to play bridge with amongst her neighborhood friends. They drug out four kitchen chairs from the inside table, and then supplemented with one fold out chair that was left. Sybbie had no choice but to sit on Thomas’ lap, but seemed rather pleased by this outcome. She didn’t eat much of her lunch, instead nibbling on a corn beef sandwich a slice of camembert. 

“There’s nothing quite as beautiful as an English country cottage.” Lord Hexam said, looking out over Mrs. Hughes soon to be cotton garden. 

“Oh thank you.” Mrs. Hughes beamed as she poured a class of wine for him, “Your grace is quite kind.” 

“You’ve been the kind one to allow Thomas refuge here.” Lord Hexam praised her, “I confess, I find it very touching.” and he sounded quite genuine. Almost choked up to know that someone would care as much as Mrs. Hughes. 

“It’s hardly any trouble.” Mrs. Hughes assured him, “We’re rather… fond… of Thomas.” It was the way she said the word, softly without biting edge. 

It gave Thomas pause as he nibbled on a pickle.  
“That’s a first.” Thomas tried for humor to ease the emotion in the air. Across the table, eating her own sandwich, Baxter offered him a gentle smile. 

“I’m sure it’s not.” she said. 

Suddenly it as the pair of them, talking as if they were at the servant’s table instead of dining unexpectedly with a Marquess. In her navy blue dress, Baxter looked as calm and maintained over breakfast at the abbey. Once again it baffled Thomas to realize some people were not having a nervous breakdown on a daily basis. 

She was a true inspiration to him. 

“Were you surprised? When you were told?” Thomas asked. Beside him, Tom paused slightly, mid-bite of cheese. He caught Baxter’s eyes, something unspoken passing between them. Perhaps they had had this conversation before. 

“Yes, I was.” Baxter admitted, “But not unhappy. Just confused. You had to hide your courtship so it obviously came rather out of the blue.” 

“I assure you, it wasn’t.” Tom said, passing her another pickle when she finished her first one. 

“Oh, Thomas… I wish you’d just told me that night on the phone.” Baxter said this with a slight sigh as if Thomas was being very silly, “I was so afraid, in France. I thought you’d… take a bath in the middle of the day again.” She said, casting a glance in Sybbie’s direction. They would have to word their sentences very carefully to avoid traumatizing her again. 

“I thought if I told you, you would hate me.” Thomas said. Upon his lap, Sybbie turned her face into his stomach to hide again. It was like she was ready to take a nap, though she was without a blanket or pillow. 

“But why?” Baxter asked, “I don’t hate you. No one downstairs hates you-“ She paused, adding with a small wince, “Mr. Moseley and Mr. Bates still think you’re a bit of a pest, but no one hates you.” 

“And what about me?” Tom teased. 

“Well, I wouldn’t it past Mrs. Patmore.” A chuckle rose about the table. “She’s furious at the situation, not at you.” 

“She hates me.” Tom diffused. Everyone laughed again. 

“But I must ask.” Lord Hexam spoke up again, eager as before, “What can I do to help you in your time of need? Surely there must be something I could say to Lord Grantham.” 

To this, he looked to Thomas, and Thomas flushed, gazing down at his lap where Sybbie was still hiding her face in his waistcoat. It was difficult, to be looked at straight in the eye by someone who was not only a member of the upper class but aware that Thomas was different. He did not judge, he did not even disagree, and it baffled Thomas. Even Mrs. Hughes had her reservations. But Lord Hexam did not. He seemed almost… gleeful that Thomas was abnormal. 

“I- I wouldn’t presume to say, your grace.” Thomas murmured. 

“Please, Thomas.” Lord Hexam used his first name, making their conversation quite familiar, “My cousin meant the world to me. His struggle was my struggle, and I do not take it lightly. Call me Bertie, and tell me what I can do for you.” 

Thomas flushed, quite certain he was never going to call Lord Hexam ‘Bertie’ even if his life depended upon it. Tom looked damn pleased with himself, however, and was grinning from ear to ear. 

“….Well…” Thomas mumbled, his eyes on the top of Sybbie’s head, “I know Tom and I would be very grateful if you would speak to his Lordship and Lady Mary in our defense.” 

“I will!” Bertie declared at once, “Absolutely! Edith stands beside you, just so you know.” 

Thomas highly doubted that Lady Edith was actually on their side. If anything she was probably just eager to show her independence to Lady Mary who had always ruled over her and put her in a shadow. 

“I think Edith is just eager to show off against Mary.” Tom said what Thomas was thinking, and for that he was grateful. Bertie just chortled as if it were all very amusing. 

“Oh I suppose. You know how they squabble.” He said, shrugging with a benign smile. My god, did nothing rattle this man? “I try to stay out of such matters.” 

“You’re a smart man.” Tom praised. 

“Mary’s unhappy.” Bertie declared, as if this wasn’t ragingly obvious. “She feels like you’ve broken her trust, and she’s having trouble forgiving that.” 

“She’ll live.” Tom said darkly, taking a slow sip of his wine. As he finished the glass, Thomas refilled it for him. Tom took another drink, resting his free arm around the back of Thomas’ chair. He rather liked to do that- to stretch out and comfort someone at the same time. 

“I think what would help is if we take the heat out of the situation.” Bertie said, “I confess, your brother Kieran is very hot in the mouth.” 

“Oh, he’s been that way since birth.” Tom waved a hand passingly through the air. Sybbie was now nearly asleep, Thomas could feel her breath steadying out against his chest. He abandoned his lunch altogether, resting his hands against her so that he could keep her warm from the slight wind that ruffled their lace tablecloth, “Me mam once said that when he was first born, he screamed all night for no reason. She held him and rocked him, he was completely fine, then… boom!” Tom sneered, “He’s start screeching again.” 

“Well perhaps now is not the time to screech?” Lord Hexam advised. Tom grinned, swallowing the last bit of his corn beef sandwich. 

“I can concede to that.” He said, “Kieran hates the English- I won’t deny it. He thinks Thomas is crackers and Mr. Carson is stuffy.” 

“Well he’s not wrong on either count, is he?” Thomas muttered more to himself than anyone else. Unfortunately, Mrs. Hughes heard him. 

“Thomas.” She warned. Thomas shrugged, keeping silent as he stroked Sybbie’s hair.  
He could feel her snoring softly against him. She was asleep. 

“I’ll see what I can do with Lord Grantham and Mary.” Lord Hexam said, “But in return I need you to rope Kieran in.” 

“He’s my problem.” Tom agreed. “I’ll handle it. But since we’re talking about what needs to be done-?” Tom turned, looking to Thomas now instead of Lord Hexam. Thomas noted that, far across the table, Mrs.Hughes hands had grown tense around her fork and knife as she paused cutting her pickle. 

“Do you want to go to Liverpool?” Tom asked, “You, me, and Sybbie? We’d be away from this nonsense. Free to do as we wished. We could find other jobs. We could raise Sybbie as we want, away from persecution…” 

It was an incredibly tempting idea. To just… hope on a train and set up shop somewhere else. To make a home with Tom, whom he loved so dearly. To raise Sybbie like a parent instead of as an impromptu nanny. To be away from the fighting- from everything really- but Thomas knew from experience that such places and such scenarios didn’t exist. All that would happen if they left, was more heartache and more sadness. They would get to Liverpool and be utterly alone. The emptiness of where the family had been would haunt them until their hearts either learned to forget, or their ears went deaf from ghosts. Sybbie did not deserve that. 

“We’re going to find persecution no matter where we go, Tom.” Thomas warned, “And… as much as the idea of freedom appeals to me, it comes at much to high a cost.” 

Mrs. Hughes was completely still, like a statue silent in her garden. 

“We can’t do that to the family.” Thomas finished up. 

“But look what the family is doing to us.” Tom argued, and he had a fair point. None of this was easy. 

“I agree. It’s hard.” Thomas said, “But I’m not in the mood to make a bigger fight out of the one we’ve already got. We hold our ground with the dignity we’re allowed. And when the final decision is reached we react.” 

“and what if they expel you and entrap me?” Tom asked. 

“…Then…” Then what? “Then we leave with Sybbie. But not for Liverpool, it’s too close. Too dangerous.” 

“Then where?” Tom asked. “America?” 

“That could work.” 

“We could go back to Boston.” Tom mused, gently stroking his chin in thought, “But we shouldn’t act on it until we know for certain what the family’s decision is going to be. Sybbie liked it in Boston, she’ll enjoy it there again. We all will.” He looked to Thomas at this with a soft wistful smile. 

“My cousin Harry and I were running a rather large car company. We needed a secretary when I left.” Tom said. “Would you like to be our secretary?” 

Thomas started laughing and couldn’t stop. He suddenly saw himself behind a desk, answering phones and wearing thick rimmed glasses like all those girls in London. Raised skirt lines and rouge, that was the life for him. 

“I’ll see what I can do.” Thomas teased. Tom gazed on him adoringly. Thomas had a feeling that, had they been alone, Tom would have kissed him in that moment. Instead, Tom just leaned his head a bit so that his nose touched Thomas’ temple. 

So at least their plan was set. 

~*~

Following lunch at the Carson’s, Tom stayed while Bertie drove Baxter back to the house. Together, he and Sybbie tromped about Mrs. Hughes’ cotton garden, making a mess as Thomas started work on the shed and Mrs. Hughes planted her seeds. Sybbie helped Mrs. Hughes, using the hem of her skirt like a net for earthworms and beetles she found. Tom and Thomas double teamed on the shed, sawing and measuring wood till they had a neat pile of usable planks. When it grew close to dinner time, Tom had no choice but to return back to the abbey and take Sybbie with him. Kieran would be coming for dinner, and Tom did not want to leave him unsupervised. He hoped his time out of the house would have given Bertie enough leg room to speak to Robert. As they’d left, Tom had managed to sneak a kiss in while Mrs. Hughes’ back was turned. He was almost certain Sybbie had seen, despite the fact she’d been putting her flowers in a vase and fully ‘occupied’. She hadn’t given them away, her eyes calm as Thomas had tilted his head to the side and allowed Tom’s lips to nip softly at his own. 

Now back at the house, dressing for dinner, Tom felt more steadied. Grounded. Himself. 

Whatever insanity that had lobbed over him this past week- Thomas had sucked it all way with a steady plan and an even steadier kiss. Before his standing mirror, Tom observed himself a new man and knotted his white tie with calm hands. Whatever would happen tonight, he could handle it. Thomas had faith in him; what more did he need? 

A soft knock at the door brought Tom pause, for he wasn’t even fully dressed yet and hadn’t expected Kieran to come calling so soon. Instead, the door opened to reveal Robert, who was already dressed for dinner and just seemed eager to escape the heat for the moment. 

The two men stared at one another, neither stiff nor truly happy. 

“May I come in?" Robert murmured. Tom gestured about himself- what could he hid from Robert? 

“It’s your house. “Tom assured him, and with that Robert stepped in to shut the door. “I can hardly bar you entry.” 

“You’d be amazed.” Robert gave him a small smile as Tom did his cufflinks and shrugged on his waist coat. “I raised three daughters. There were times when I was genuinely afraid to open a bedroom door.” 

“Well I hope I’m a little less intimidating than a teenage girl.” Tom tried for a joke, if not a very small one. Robert accepted it all the same with a soft smile. 

“A little less.” He teased. For a moment Robert simply watched Tom dress; Tom was careful with the buttons of his waistcoat, making sure everything was straight and neat before turning to his clothes horse and beginning to brush the shoulders of his black jacket. 

“Bertie spoke with me this afternoon.” Robert admitted, which was just as Tom had suspected. “He said that the pair of you dined with Barrow at the Carson’s for lunch. That Sybbie was initially quite distraught but Barrow sorted her out.” 

“He has a way of doing that.” Tom added, shrugging on his jacket to begin layering it over his shirtsleeves. This was always the hardest part for him; he felt like he was a bag of walking wrinkles. 

“Bertie implored me to be kind and lenient.” Robert added. 

“Have you reached a decision?” Tom asked, calm now that he knew what his backup plan would be. 

“Not yet.” Robert admitted. 

“What’s keeping you?” Tom asked. 

“I’m unsure.” Robert did not even try for a lie, “I suppose I’m thinking of my own father, and what he would say if he were in my position.” 

“I highly doubt a Victorian would be lenient.” Tom warned. Robert didn’t take offense, smiling grimly at the prospects of the past. 

“I don’t know what to do, Tom.” Robert murmured. Tom looked around, finally buttoning the bottom of his black jacket so that, for all intents and purposes, he was ready to go. “I often find myself at a cross roads now a days. I no longer live in the world I loved as a child. I’m a stranger in a strange land.” 

“You say that, and Thomas is sleeping on Carson’s couch.” Tom tried for another joke. Robert smiled but said nothing more, “Well, when you’ve come to your decision we’ll be grateful if you could let us know. Because… if it is a no, Thomas and I have decided we’re going back to Boston.” 

Robert nodded, calm. “Boston is a fine place.” He agreed softly, “You could do very well-“ 

“Sybbie enjoyed it.” Tom agreed, for though Boston wasn’t Ireland it did have a nice Irish community. 

“Sybbie would be going with you?” Robert sounded incredibly disappointed at this, his face crestfallen. Tom would not be swayed. 

“…. I will not abandon her.” He remained Robert. “She already lost her mother. She will not lose her father.” 

Robert sighed, unwilling to argue over that point when Sybil’s grave was Tom’s evidence. 

 

Upon going downstairs, both men were greeted in the sitting room by a stiff silence. Kieran had come, as was required of him, but he certainly didn’t look about it. Indeed, he didn’t look happy all through dinner and while he had managed to wrangle another beer out of Andy he still scowled at his plate. Sybbie ate happily tonight, avidly telling the others how Mrs. Hughes’ garden was going to flourish with her help and that she now had prospective plans to become a gardener as an adult. This lead to more talk of how the Dowager had always won best in show at the flower unveiling each spring, and how many of the Crawley women were named after ‘flower’ types. 

Kieran said nothing, stabbing moodily at his steak as if it had done him a personal wrong. 

As Sybbie captivated the table with her innocence and kindness, Tom took it upon himself to speak softly to Kieran so that they could have a private discussion. 

“I wanted to let you know I spoke with Thomas about leaving.” Tom murmured, “We’ve decided not to go to Liverpool.” 

“So I won’t have to turn my garage into a convalescent.” Kieran said moodily, “That’s comforting.” 

Tom did not rise to the bait. “We’re going back to Boston…. if things don’t turn out the way we hope for.” 

“Good.” was all Kieran said, chewing on a mouthful of steak. 

“Cousin Harry was good to me.” Tom mused, “I’ll be glad to be in his company again.” 

“At least you won’t be in mine.” Kieran sneered, mouth full with chewed food. 

Tom glowered at him, catching Kieran’s eye to find him in a right ugly temper. But why? It wasn’t like he was the one on trial before a family he adored for loving a man. He was just the one who had to stand up and say a few lines. Was that really such a difficulty? 

“Why the long face, Kieran?” Tom demanded, setting down his knife and fork to devote his full attention to his brother. “It’s not like you’re payin’ for beer.” 

“oh I don’t know.” Kieran spoke far too loudly, the alcohol getting to him, “There’s the fact that you’re takin’ it up with a lunatic.” 

The table fell silent. 

Sybbie looked around, unsure of what her uncle had meant. Tom bristled, hands clenching to fists atop the table. Kieran knew how to press his buttons and fast. 

“Kieran.” Tom ground out, voice soft as he watched Bertie purse his lips and Mary narrow her eyes, “Stop.” 

“I won’t apologize for it!” Kieran snapped. “That Barrow fellow is cracked! He needs to be in Briarcliffe.” 

“I didn’t realize you had medical training.” Mary sneered, shocking Tom by taking their side on this issue. Was she starting to come around? Tom could hardly believe it? But Bertie looked just as confused as he, so maybe it was a once off. 

“Kieran…” Tom growled, taking slow deep breathes through his nose. “Stop.” 

_Do not punch your brother in the face, do not punch your brother in the face-!_

“For god’s sake.” Robert grumbled at the head of the table, “Can we have one night without fighting, that’s all I ask.” 

“I’m sorry- did you not hear the bit about the well in the basement?” Kieran demanded, completely ignoring Robert or his request. “How about the hand that grabbed him- the dead guy he saw- was I the only one listening to that lunatic?” 

“He’s stressed Kieran.” Tom reminded him, unable to keep the biting edge of his voice. “And he’s on a medicine, and it’s making him confused. You forget the time our own sister Diedre swore she saw the devil in a biscuit.” 

_“It’s right there! Can’t any of you see it?!” Diedre had howled, pointing at a plain biscuit and mad with fever. Their mother had promptly put her to bed after that, though Diedre had cried until their mother had found the offending biscuit and thrown it out for a cow to eat._

“She was sick!” Kieran scoffed. 

“So is Thomas!” Tom agreed, trying to make Kieran see his point. But Kieran had all but blinded himself by this point. 

“Fer christ’s sake Tommy! He’s been hackin’ at his feckin’ wrists!” Kieran cursed, causing Edith and Mary both to bristle from his obscene language. 

“Enough, sir!” Robert snapped, glaring at Kieran from across the table. 

“For god’s sake, man.” Bertie murmured, “There are lady’s present.” 

“Cut out your language.” Tom snapped, less forgiving than the others. He knew Kieran could do better- why wasn’t he acting it? Did he really hate Thomas that much? Did he really want Tom to be unhappy? “You’re at a time with fine people, and my child.” 

“What’s a matter, Tommy?” Kieran looked away, shaking his head. He sound disappointed in Tom, as if Tom had betrayed him in the worst sort of way. “Ashamed of me?” 

“Why are you acting this way?” Tom demanded. “It can’t be the beer, we don’t carry a brand strong enough to get you drunk.” 

“Why are you acting this way?!” Kieran rounded on him at once, eyes blazing with a political fury, “You’re hardly the brother I grew up with. Look at what you’re wearing!” He gestured to Tom’s white tie like it was a snake wrapped about his neck. 

“Are you really that shallow that a tie offends you?” Tom grumbled. Kieran flushed in embarrassment, angry at being deemed for ignorant. 

“that tie shot our cousin in the streets! An’ had it’s way with our other cousin if you forget-!” 

“Not this argument again.” Muttered Robert, who’d clearly prayed he’d never hear it twice since 1919. Alas, the Irish Radicalism was back, and this time in twos. 

“I’m well aware of what happened to Fionn and Nula.” Tom warned him, for his cousin’s death had struck him hard and Nula’s rape had been a burning shame within their family. “But this family never raised a finger to our kind. They’re good people, and I won’t let you snub them.” 

“Snub them.” Kieran scoffed, “I’m trying to protect you! Isn’t that what you called me in for? They weren’t good people when they were castin’ your little lavender into the streets-“ 

“I called you in to help me support my rights as Sybbie’s father, and honestly I’m startin’ to regret it.” Tom admitted to the table for there was no point denying it now. He’d forgotten how hot Kieran’s temper could get. How beer often changed him for the worse. “I forgot how much you hate the English.” 

“If you hate the English, why are you living in England?” Mary drawled from halfway up the table. Once again, Tom had to hand it to her. 

“An excellent question!” He added. 

“Jesus feckin’ christ.” Kieran cursed again, clearly bitter that Tom would agree with anything that Mary said. It seemed she personified everything Kieran hated, “Whose side are you on!? What, are you gonna start drinkin’ port and singin’ god save the queen? Want to have your way with Nula or shoot Fionn in the head— hate to tell you Tommy boy but he’s already dead and gone!” 

Sybbie had not touched her meal for a full minute and was staring wide eyed at the table cloth. Aware that any further argument would only traumatize her further, Tom completely ignored his brother to instead turn to his daughter and help her scoot her chair back from the table. 

“…Andy.” Tom instructed, keeping his tone as level and calm as possible despite the rage building within him. “Could you please take Sybbie upstairs, and help her to finish her meal in the nursery?” 

“Mr. Branson.” Andy dipped his head at once, stepping up and loading Sybbie’s plate onto a silver serving tray which he could carry in one hand while taking her by the other. Sybbie went without a fuss or a fight, content to let an adult lead her away from the fray as Mr. Carson opened the dining room door for Andy. As soon as the door was shut again, Tom rounded on his brother in a flash. 

“Do you ever shut your drunk mouth?!” Tom spat, furious. Kieran turned an ugly red in response. “She’s five years old! You idiot!” 

“She might be young but she can handle it- she’s Irish-!” 

“No, she can’t!” Tom jerked out of his chair, and up went Kieran too. Now the two were towering against one another, squaring off. Any second now a fist was going to fly. “She’s having a rough enough time as it is. Thomas was her defender, for god’s sake. I won’t have you upset her even more. you act like being Irish is a shield, it’s a nationality not a blessing!” 

“Oh-!” Kieran scoffed, haughtily, “So I’m the one upsetting her?” He gestured to himself with exasperated hands, “Meanwhile you’re buggering a lunatic in an English bastards’ cradle!” 

“How dare you?!” Robert demanded, agog that any guest would have the gaul to speak about him in such a way. But Kieran had always been like this- he’d always had a hot mouth only a punch could sort out. Even when they’d been little, Tom and Kieran had been prone to fight at the dinner table when the conversation got too nasty. Their father had always told them to take it outside, and so they had- shouting and railing on the lawn until their grandfather had come out and whipped them both with his belt. 

“Get outside.” Tom snapped, pointing a finger to the door.  
He knew what was going to come next, but it sure as hell wasn’t going to happen in the dining room of the abbey. The family gaped at them like they were a circus act, absolutely shocked that two family members might dare brawl with one another. 

“Tom, don’t do this!” Cora protested, begging for reason and sense. 

But sense and reason had fled the situation. Kieran had called Thomas a lunatic and nearly upset Sybbie out of eating her dinner. Tom was going to smack him in the jaw or die trying, by god. 

Out they stomped to the front lawn, followed by a shocked Henry who seemed to want to know exactly what was going on and- of all people- Mary who had likewise abandoned her plate. She watched with wide eyes as Tom rounded on Kieran in the snow, ready to breathe fire at his older brother only to have to dodge for his life when Kieran threw a punch at him. 

Tom could hear Mary gasp from the lawn. 

“Call him a lunatic again!” Tom shouted, grabbing Kieran tight by the collar. The inertia of the movement brought them both to earth, and though the snow softened their fall Tom knew they would have bruises come morning. They struggled for dominance, each wrestling with the other to pin them to the ground. “Do it! I dare you! Say it again!” 

“Yer’ fergetting who you are!” Kieran roared, managing to mount Tom only to shake and rattle his head against the ground, “Yer not English Tom!” 

“I never claimed to me!” Tom managed to garble, words jiggling as his throat bobbed, “But if I was, would that make me the enemy?!” 

“Yes!” Kieran shouted, and just for good measure he threw yet another punch at Tom’s face. Tom blocked it and popped Kieran hard in the cheek. It wasn’t nearly as strong a punch as he’d used on Larry Gray (the bastard) but it certainly got the message across, stinging like the bite of a bee and turning Kieran’s cheek a bright red. 

“You’re an idiot!” Tom howled as Kieran grabbed him by the tie and smacked him hard into the earth again, “It’s not the people! It’s their king! He’s the one makin’ the laws-!” 

“And they’re the one’s supportin’ him!” Kieran shouted, pointed a furious finger back to the door of the abbey. Tom used the moment to gain leverage, swinging his leg around and getting back atop Kieran. Kieran refused to go down without a fight, smacking Tom hard in the jaw so that his mouth throbbed and his head spun. Why was it that a light punch from his brother hurt worse than a hard punch from a stranger? 

“If you hate it so much, go back to Dublin!” Tom shrieked, trying to punch Kieran again; Kieran blocked him and held his fist tight so that he could not retract, the pair of them shaking and struggling. 

“Look at what they’re doin to you!” Kieran spat, “Convertin’ you!” 

“To what?! Good manners?!” 

“To BUGGERY!” and with that, Kieran let go of Tom’s fist so that Tom suddenly went toppling over backwards onto the snow. Kieran tried to climb atop him, maybe making to shake him about some more, but Tom kicked him off before he could fully get atop and leapt upon his brother with a scream of rage. In his moment of fury, he slipped back to his native tongue and started cursing his brother in Gaelic. 

“You always were a fuckin’ bastard! I hope your dog pisses in your shoes! I should have never called you in, you just made things worse! Our mother would be ashamed of you!” 

“Ashamed of me!? You’re the one takin’ it up the ass!” Kieran spat. 

Technically _Thomas_ had been the one to do the ‘taking’ but Tom would make to correct this error later. Right now he was too busy fighting his brother. 

And struggling against Mr. Carson. 

It was really no surprise that he’d come to put a fight to a stop on the lawn. He always seemed to be around when Tom was losing his temper. The aged butler yanked him back by the scruff of the neck, separating them like a headmaster to two school boys. He all by threw Tom towards the direction of the abbey so that Tom skidded and slid on the icy gravel, suddenly without balance as he staggered away. Every time Tom tried to turn back and fight Kieran, Mr. Carson just shoved him away even harder. Kieran staggered up in the snow, rubbing his stinging cheek and glaring at Tom like they were mortal enemies. 

“I needed your help, Kieran!” Tom shouted in dismay, “Not your anger!” 

“You need to get back to church and remember who you are!” Kieran shouted in return, red faced and furious. 

“I’m your brother!” Tom protested, digging his fingers into his chest as he repeatedly pointed at himself. When had Kieran forgotten this? When Tom had told him he was in love with a man or when Tom had put on a white tie? 

“Then act like it!” Kieran screamed, before whirling around and beginning to storm off in the snow. 

Carson pushed Tom back, guiding him sternly towards the front doors of the abbey where Henry and Mary were still staring, waiting. Twice, Tom tried to dodge around Carson and run after Kieran but Mr. Carson just grabbed him and hauled him back. The fight was over. The visit was through. Kieran would take the morning train and that would be the end of it. Tom didn’t know if he would ever see his brother again, or what he might say at that time. He suddenly remembered how, as a child, his older brother had been a bit like a hero to him. How Tom had been a wee thing toddling in hand sewn britches after Kieran while he bounded through the fields and pulled up weeds for their father. Tom had thought Kieran a god then. Now? 

Tom cupped his hands to his mouth, unwilling to let Kieran go out into the night without one final boomed phrase of parting: _“GO N’EÍRÍ AN BÓTHAR LEAT!”_ he cried out in Gaelic. His voice echoed across the lawn, bringing pause to Kieran who was almost halfway up the drive. For a moment his brother merely stared at him, a slight figure in the night. Then, Kieran brought his own hands up to his mouth. 

_“Logh dom dheartháir… Ní féidir liom cabhrú leat.”_ was his faintly heard reply. 

Tom’s shoulders sagged under the enormous weight of Kieran’s words, feeling like he’d been abandoned twice now as his brother vanished, furious, into the night. 

“… What did he say?” Henry asked, breaking the horrifically awkward silence upon the stoop. 

Tom wiped grime and snow from his face and hands, feeling an absolute fool and bitter with the world. What would Thomas say if he could say him now? How could Tom claim to be worthy of the man when this was all he did? Fight and argue? 

“… He said, _‘Forgive me brother, I cannot help you’_.” Tom bit out.  
Henry opened his mouth but then closed it again, clearly unable to come up with an adequate reply to the ugly situation. 

Tom went back into the house. 

It had felt like a tomb, it had felt like a coffin, it had felt like a cradle. Now it just felt like a house, a normal fucking house, with normal fucking people in it that were just the same as every other family. It didn’t matter if Tom wore a white tie or not. If he drank port or stuck to Irish whiskey. It didn’t matter because no matter where he turned there would aways be someone waiting to bite him in the ass. Whether it was Mary, Kieran, Carson, the world— it was the same situation just a different face. 

Betrayed, Tom yanked off his white tie, shoving it unceremoniously into his pocket even as he made to climb the gallery stairs back to his room. Though he did not know it, it slipped out and fell onto the floor, looking much like Edith’s veil had when it had been cast over the railing’s side. 

It’s story was the same: an ominous garment once mean for pomp and circumstance- now sullied by the words of others.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well I hope you enjoyed that bizarre addition. Please, leave a review if you have any questions or concerns. I always read them.


	19. Friend is a Four Letter Word

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lord Grantham has an ultimatum.  
> Tom has an argument.   
> Sergeant Willas has a cup of coffee.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beetlejuice, Beetlejuice, Beetlejuice.   
> Third times the charm.

To say that the visit from Kieran had been a failure was putting it rather mildly, and Tom was tired of not using the appropriate word for a given situation. He didn’t ‘care deeply’ for Thomas, he ‘loved’ Thomas. He wasn’t ‘confused’ he was ‘bleeding furious’. He didn’t need a ‘lie down’ or a ‘cup of tea’, he needed an entire bottle of Irish whiskey and Thomas Barrow sitting on his lap naked. 

So Kieran’s visit hadn’t been a ‘failure’. It had been an ‘absolute disaster’. 

It was the Tuesday after Kieran’s ‘absolute disaster’, and Tom sat in the library leaning aggressively on his hand staring out the window of the northern lawn. Sybbie was on a walk with George, the pair of them hand in hand as Nanny Armstrong lead them through their daily trek. Tom could remember watching Thomas from this very spot, chasing George across the northern lawn while George had screamed and given chase. Compared to that wild romp, Nanny Armstrong’s orderly march looked like the final walk a man might take to his noose. There was no spirit in it, no love, and it made Tom miserable. 

He was not alone in the library. Robert and Cora sat upon the couch, taking tea with Mary. Henry was in London for a day or two, wanting to get some work done on their shop. Unlike before, when he would have practically begged Tom to come with him, Henry had left without telling or even saying goodbye. Tom reasoned now that they were no longer friends, and it made an ugly feeling gnaw at the pit of his stomach. He’d been offered tea by Carson but had declined it without comment. He didn’t want a ‘cup of tea’. He wanted whiskey. 

He wanted Thomas. 

“I wish you’d come over here and stop acting like a child by the window.” Robert spoke up from the couch. Mary was reading Edith’s magazine, and casually flicked through the pages without so much as looking up in Tom’s direction. Cora, on the other hand, couldn’t seem to stop staring at him with reproachful and hurt looks. 

“Am I a child?” Tom wondered aloud, refusing to break his gaze from Sybbie who was now breaking rank from Nanny Armstrong’s line to pick flowers. It made Tom think of the bouquet she’d made for Thomas. “When I’ve been treated so poorly.” 

“It’s hardly you that’s lost their job.” Mary muttered nastily. 

“Barrow hasn’t lost his job.” Robert reminded her, “Not yet. I’m still thinking about it.” He took another sip of tea, mulling it all over. Tom what it was like, to have power over another’s life. 

“Why?” Tom wondered, for really this was the oddest part of it all. Why not just past judgement? Why stretch it out? “Why are you still thinking about it? Just make your decision so I can make mine.” 

“Please, Tom…” Cora murmured reproachfully, “Let’s not argue about this again.” 

Right. Of course. Let’s just have another cup of tea. 

Tom was tired of waiting, tired of being on the outskirts of a family he’d once loved, and tired of being kept away from Thomas. Fed up, he rose from his chair and without another word exited the library. If Henry couldn’t be bothered to tell Tom he was leaving for the shop, Tom couldn’t be bothered to likewise tell the family he was leaving for a walk. If it just so happened that the Carson’s cottage was on the other end of that walk…well… the devil was in the details.

Out the front doors he went, coat and hat in hand. He went around the side of the house, careful to avoid small piles of slush that had clumped together as the weather slowly (inevitably) got warmer. It seemed like winter couldn’t make up its mind whether to stay or go. Some days it was warm enough to dine outside (like Saturday). Some days it was so cold that one had to stoke the fires constantly. Today was in between, but it suited Tom nicely for a drive as he pulled out the lone motorcar and took her for a spin. The wind whistled in his hair, biting a bit at the tips of his ears and nose. 

He tried to give himself peace by the view of the countryside. There was absolute beauty in the woods and country roads; it would be insane to insist otherwise. But Tom could find no happiness, no contentment. His fingers drummed wildly on the steering wheel. 

When the Carson’s cottage came into view, Tom was confused by a figure on the roof. He seemed to be doing shingle work of some kind, with a long ladder propped up the front side of the house to reach the rain gutter and then some. But as Tom parked the car and got out, he saw that it was only Thomas and smiled. 

“Well look!” Tom crowed, nearly causing Thomas to drop his maul. “It’s an Irish wind blowing in a new spring!” 

Thomas grinned, and in a moment of cheer flipped him the bird. Tom pretend to be shot in the chest and fell against the side of the car clutching at his chest. 

When Thomas stopped chuckling, Tom straightened up. “Care to let me up?” 

“Climb the ladder yourself.” Thomas teased, and so Tom did setting his coat and hat on the seat of the car. Up he went, one rig at a time, time he was finally clambering on top of the roof and Thomas was helping him along. It felt wrong to grab Thomas by the arms, particularly when he’d gone and hurt himself only the week before. Still, Thomas had a strong grip and didn’t seem to waver much as Tom finally hauled himself up to sit next to him on the roof. Just as Tom suspected, Thomas had been doing shingle work, repairing what he could and replacing what he could not so that an old mop bucket near the chimney was now stacked high with rotten flacks. 

The pair of them straddled the rooftop, the maul and mop bucket abandoned so that they could instead enjoy the view side by side. Thomas had his shirt sleeves rolled up, his long bandages exposed to the air so that they were slightly dusted with roof dirt. He looked paler than usual, somehow nervous though Tom could hardly need an explanation for why. 

He scooted a little closer to Thomas, careful not sit on his hand or knock him off balance. They were upon a pretty thin ledge, literally. 

Off in the distance, one could see Downton Abbey from the roof. Tom tried not to imagine it bursting into flames. 

“Funny looking on it from here.” Thomas mumbled, chin upon his knees. 

“Feels like I’m lookin’ at a graveyard.” Tom grumbled, scooting a little closer to Thomas. It was cold up on the roof, with nothing to block the wind. “I understand why Kieran couldn’t help me but… it still doesn’t feel real.” 

Thomas leaned into him, and Tom took great comfort from the touch. “Kieran will come ‘round.” 

Tom sighed.   
Would he? It was hard to say. 

“I’m getting to the point where I don’t want to be around them— any of them.” Tom explained, bitterness beginning to sting at his heart. What would he give just to be able to go back to Dublin and live with Thomas and Sybbie in his old flat. 

“Don’t be bitter.” Thomas urged. “Not yet.” 

Tom glanced at him, noting that his chin was still upon his knees. He was pondering many things. He wondered when he would be allowed to be bitter. 

“If they sack you, we’re leaving.” Tom warned. “I’m going to look into the next boat leaving for Boston, and you and I will be on it with Sybbie if they say no.” 

“I’d rather make peace with his lordship than start a new life in Boston, I admit it.” Thomas said rather meekly, “He’s been good to me.” 

“His _lordship_.” Tom sneered, in an ungenerous mood. “Lord of the dunces, he can be. He’s a clever man, but he can’t see past the end of his nose on this one subject. He keeps wondering what his father would do!” At this Tom took a rotten shingle and tossed it out hard into the open grass that surrounded the cottage. 

“His father would probably have me beheaded.” Thomas admitted. The thought made Tom go cold. 

“The thought of you being harmed… makes me cold.” Tom murmured. “Colder than this wind. Colder than the rain.” 

“… I know that kind of cold.” Thomas said, “ I felt it once-“ 

He was growing somber and that just wouldn’t do. The world was painful enough for them right now. What they needed was love and comfort; each other. 

Tom leaned in and kissed him ever so gently upon the cheek. Then the bridge of his nose. Thomas skin was cool and sweet, like a penny lick on a summer day; he turned a bit on his cheek and grinned, embarrassed. 

Tom sought his lips next, and found them even sweeter. Honey on the ice. 

Thomas leaned in, his hands bracing Tom’s back, and together they enter twined like two vines looking for purchase on a wooden post. The wind pulled a bit about their clothes and hair- it was stronger high up. 

Tom had kissed him naked and clothed, now low and high. He wanted to kiss him under water and in a desert. He wanted to kiss him splayed out on the dining hall table covered in fruit and honey— _what?_

He really needed to get his fantasies in check. 

“Pardon me,” Cried the brisk snap of a Scottish brogue near the ground, “I do hope I’m not interrupting your work!” 

Thomas spluttered, throwing his arms out in an attempt to push Tom off of him before Mrs. Hughes could see them kiss. But clearly Thomas had forgotten they were perched on a roof because his backward reel sent him falling almost off the side of the house. Tom’s heart leapt into his throat as shingles went flying beneath Thomas’ backside— he grabbed him tight by the knees and pinned him to the roof to keep him from slipping any further. 

Mrs. Hughes gasped as Thomas’ near fall, her hand leaping to her throat, “For god’s sake, Thomas!” She harassed. Thomas clambered up the roof again, fingers crawling against rotting shingles and Tom’s body to try and gain better purchase. Tom held him tight, and felt Thomas’ pulse pounding through his vest and shirt. 

Christ a fall from here would have broken a leg- or a neck! 

Mrs. Hughes glared from the ground, in her navy pleated skirt stained slightly at the hem with mud from her garden. 

“Stop dallying around or you’ll break your neck and his too!” She added, throwing an accusatory finger at Tom, “And get down off the roof, Mr. Branson, or you’ll rip your trousers!” 

To be fair he was hardly dressed for laboring. 

“I’ve a kiss for you too, Mrs. Hughes!” Tom teased; she dropped her hands, scowling and swinging them about her hips till she rolled her eyes and turned away. 

“You act as if I need it!” She declared, and without another word she went back inside. As the front door slammed shut, Tom scoffed. 

“She snubbed me!” Tom declared, amazed at his own poor luck. Thomas might have been one to crack a joke at this point but he stayed momentarily silent in Tom’s arms staring back out at the abbey upon the hill. 

His heart was slowing beneath Tom’s fingers. 

Tom jostled him a bit, trying to get him to smile, but between his legs Thomas wouldn’t crack even the tiniest grin. Tom hunched his back, arms draped between his knees so that Thomas was essentially trapped. 

Not that he had plans to go anywhere else sometime soon. 

“Hey…” Tom murmured, nudging Thomas’ ear with his nose, “Is something wrong?” He sat up a bit better. “You look… I don’t know. Pale. Paler than normal.” He said, for Thomas had never been the tan sort, “Is it because of all of this?” He gestured a hand out towards the abbey in the distance. 

Thomas smiled, relaxing back so that his head was now cushioned against Tom’s collarbone. 

“No. And yes… but no.” 

Tom had not known such peace since two Thursdays ago. He nestled his nose into Thomas’ hair and smiled with the smell of coconut shampoo. “What is it?” 

“ Have you ever seen something that… couldn’t be real but-“ Thomas broke off, frowning. 

“Love.” Tom murmured in his ear, refusing to play word games. 

“Just answer me.” Thomas beseeched. So Tom did, thinking hard before saying another word. 

Honestly, the strangest thing Tom had ever witnessed had been his experiences with the ouija board- but Thomas already knew about those, didn’t he? 

“It’s difficult to say.” He admitted, “Looking back on my life, the strangest experience I ever had was our sessions with Sybil and Edward.”

But at the mention of their names, Thomas dropped his chin to his chest. It was almost like he was ridden with guilt. 

“You know,” Tom murmured in his ear, “You can tell me anything, Thomas.” 

“And you won’t think I’m mad?” He asked. 

“Not in the slightest.” Tom knew for a solid fact that Thomas was not insane. Precisely the reason why he got so angry when someone insisted he was. Thomas wasn’t crazy. He thought too much and sometimes needed to go have a hissy fit in a corner… but that was about as bad as it got. 

I mean, if you didn’t include the stealing and the lying. That was pretty low, but Tom was almost certain Thomas had been acting on wild impulse during those moments like a naughty child without a parent to oversee them. If only Tom had been around then, to take him over his knee and give him a swat with Carson’s belt. 

_“Oh-!” Thomas would grind into his lap, cock aching through the fabric of Tom’s trouser leg. His arse would be sore and bright red, flaming with heat to the touch. He’d love it, grinning filthily, “Oh please, I’ve been so bad-!”_

Christ. Tom shook his head, internally berating himself. He really needed to get his imagination in check. 

“Tom… “Thomas’ voice shot every filthy voice out of his head. “Last night, something… odd happened.” 

It was difficult to say what had woken him. 

~*~

_Thomas came to with moonlight streaming through his curtains, and blinked blearing into the cool night air wondering what hour it was. He shifted upon his pillow, fingers lazily traveling from his bed to his side table where his pocket watch sat. He sat up, rubbing his face and nose to relieve an itch while opening his pocket watch in the moonlight._

_It was three in the morning, almost to the dot. For whatever reason, his pocket watch had stopped ticking and now lay absolutely silent in the gloom. Thomas shifted a bit upon his bed, flipping his watch onto its back to open it with clumsy fingers. Perhaps it needed to be wound-…._

_But the time chamber was still tight with compression. The balance meter was set properly. By all means, it should be ticking._

_So it really could be any hour- how odd._   
_Thomas set his watch back down upon his bedside table again, resolved to take care of it in the morning._

_His eyes cast to the shadows- the corners of his room- and found odd lumps in the space. Things that should not be there. Arms, torsos, and faces—FACES!!_

_Thomas could barely keep from screaming, clapping his hands tight over his mouth as his marbles went wild at the sight of his mother and Edward in the corner of the room. They were clasped hand in hand, both dripping with water. His mothers legs bowed out beneath her tattered navy dress. Edward’s blind eyes were like glass, gleaming in the moonlight._

_Had they been watching him sleep? Were they without mercy?_

_But the terrors were not over as a hand shot out in the dark from behind him- an almost impossible feat given that he was pressed tight to his headboard. Pale and willowy, they were the hands of a thin woman that wrapped tight around his chest to press over his mouth. To hold in his screams._

_“It is not what you see-“ A raspy voice, hoarse with exhaustion, whispered in his ear._   
_Petrified of what he would find, Thomas looked around._

_Sybil was behind him, pressed to his back. Her hair was a mess in her face, sweat trickling down her brow. She looked exactly as she had on the night she’d died- pale and without refuge._

_“It’s not what you see!” She urged him, eyes wide and sightless, “You did a wrong, Thomas. You must set it right.”_

_And with that, she vanished._

~*~

In the present moment, Thomas said nothing, his tale told like a child admitting to a wrong. He bowed his head again, chin tucked to his knees as Tom rocked him tight. The idea of seeing Sybil again made his heart and chest churn with misery. He almost felt irregularly jealous of Thomas for seeing Sybil again. As much as he loved Thomas, he could not deny he also loved Sybil too. 

One day he imagined the three of them would all be in heaven- and oh the joys they would know then- 

_Don’t think about a threesome with your dead love and Thomas_. Tom spat at himself internally. _Don’t you dare_. 

“A wrong-“ Tom said aloud to keep himself from thinking more on Thomas and Sybil naked and pleasing him at the same time. “What wrong have you don though?” 

“… I think I made a mistake.” Thomas said in a thick voice. 

“Darling-“ Tom squeezed him tighter, for he could hear the emotion growing in his voice, the fear. 

“No, listen to me.” Thomas turned around in Tom’s hold. now they were facing one another again, and Tom could see with obvious clarity the pain in Thomas’ face. “I think I … I think I made a mistake with the ouija board, using it as I did.” 

“Well, what mistake did you make?” Tom asked, scraping his memory for a time when Thomas had used it before him ill advisedly. Honestly, he’d never done anything obtuse. 

“…Tom, I knew Edward.” Thomas’ misery made his stomach clench into knots all over again. Determined to keep him from being blue, Tom cupped Thomas’ face in his hands and spread his thumbs over his pale cheeks, “I knew my mother all the same. They were not bad people. They were good people, they would not do this to me. They would not torment me in this way. I believe Edward loved me. Why would he do this to me if he loved me?” 

“Because he’s jealous-“ Tom supplied, thinking on how Thomas was still obvlisiou to the root of his mother’s suicide. Tom doubted he’d be telling him the truth any time soon- not until all of this had blown over and they were on stable ground at least. 

“He’s not that petty.” Thomas shook his head, “No one is. To torment someone beyond their grave? To torment someone into their grave? That’s not the work of a man, Tom. No man would be that cruel.” 

And while Tom did have a bit of a bone to pick with Edward, he couldn’t help but agree. 

Something was fishy in all of this. Sure Thomas’ mother had leapt to her death and nearly taken an infant with her, but would she make it her goal in death to torment her son to his grave? No, Tom didn’t think so. Likewise, even if Edward was jealous of the fact Tom was now plowing Thomas like a ripe summer field, surely he had better things to do than just waste Thomas into the earth? Terrifying him and hunting him down like a cat and a vole? 

"I'm afraid, Tom.” but where was the surprise there? If Tom was in Thomas’ shoes, he’d be afraid too.

“Don’t be.” Tom squeezed his arms around Thomas’ chest as hard as he could muster, and planted a sweet kiss upon his cheek. “I’m here.” 

 

 

That night, the Dowager came to dine for the first time since the family had been back from France. She wanted to hear all the details, all the gossip, and tittered as Cora spoke of the fashions of Paris while Robert mentioned several times that he wouldn’t be against owning a poodle if only they could just obtain one passage. The the entirety of the conversation, Tom sat immobile at his plate, picking endlessly at his roasted seasonal vegetables and Spanish roasted pork in turn. 

The future was so foggy, so unclear to him. Part of him wanted to go to Boston, part of him wanted to stay here. Part of him wanted to set the abbey on fire, and the other half wanted to beg for what was surely the millionth time that Thomas just be able to stay. He doubted Robert would listen. He doubted anyone would listen. 

“Heavens, is there some black cloud I do not know about?” The Dowager broke off from conversation with Robert, attempting twice to catch Tom’s eye. Her purple plums sticking out of iron gray hair made her look a bit like a very old peacock. “Tom? You’ve been most silent. Is the pork not agreeing with you?” 

An uneasy silence fell over the table as several sets of eyes fell upon Tom. Mary attempted to look uninterested but even she was gripping her wine glass rather tightly. Tom knew that most of the family were now expecting him to tell the Dowager everything- to upset another meal. 

After Kieran’s visit, however, Tom didn’t know what good it would do. He doubted the Dowager would be on his side publicly anyways. Privately, who was to say? She was a mystery to Tom. 

“It’s not table talk.” Tom finally muttered, filling his mouth with a swallow of white wine. 

“Goodness.” The Dowager beheld the tension with delight. “Now I’m intrigued.”  
She wouldn’t be for long though. 

Maybe it was just the fact that Tom had no allies now, but he found himself honest to god wondering what the Dowager would actually say if she knew the entire details of the family’s new “dark secret”. So it was that, next morning, he rang the Dower House and scheduled an afternoon tea before dressing in his smartest and heading out to town. He decided to walk, the cool air refreshing without the bite of the winter wind nipping at his heels. He arrived in Downton around noon and found the Dower House much the same as ever. Clean, white, and pruned of weeds or unseemly flowers. There on the front lawn was Moseley senior, carefully lacing the Dowager’s roses with lime so that they might have more colorful blooms come spring. He tipped his hat to Tom, and Tom tipped his hat back. 

Every time Tom passed a stranger on the street, he could not help but ask to himself: _“What would you think if you knew.”_

He rang the doorbell, pulling gently upon the ancient iron chain before wiping his hands off on his handkerchief and straightening his tie a bit. Normally he wouldn’t bother but when it came to the Dowager, he always went the extra mile. He had to. Otherwise she’d bite his head off. 

The door opened, and Tom tipped his hat to Mr. Spratt. Now that he knew he was Edith’s agony aunt, it was difficult to look at the man the say way, but he kept his smile polite and said absolutely nothing sarcastic as Spratt let him in and took his coat and hat. 

“Right this way, sir.” Mr. Spratt swept a hand down the narrow front hallway where a young maid was refreshing hydrangeas in a pink pearly vase. On the other side of the table stood Denker, looking bizarrely menacing as always as she swayed upon her feet and regarded Tom through hooded eyes. It was hard to tell whether or not she was sober. 

Though, Tom supposed he might be indulging in a drink too if he had to see the Dowager naked. 

Spratt opened the door to the sitting room to reveal the Dowager upon her favorite pink chair, in a mint green dress with a collar of lace that went all the way up to the tip of her warbled chin. She gave him a watery smile, waving a hand to the beige couch across from her (her other one clutched her black cane), and Tom sat down at once so that Spratt could close the door to the hall. Tom would be a fool not to miss Denker just outside the door, her nose poked to the sill desperately trying to hear some gossip. 

“Oh Tom, there you are.” The Dowager said, “How are you?” 

“Not well.” Tom admitted, positioning himself a little better upon the couch. 

“Yes, well, that’s what I figured when you asked to call on me alone.” She admitted. 

Spratt shooed Denker off with an ugly look, no doubt standing guard on the other side of the door. Thank god for loyal butlers. Tom had a feeling if Denker knew she’d start trying to ransom money from Tom. He’d be keeping Thomas out of jail and Denker in the drink on one fell swoop. 

Tom glanced over his shoulder at the closed door, deciding he would keep his voice soft for the sake of not being overheard. He hoped the Dowager was not hard of hearing, though at her age it was a miracle she was still breathing. 

“You looked most gloomy last night at dinner.” The Dowager murmured, brow furrowed, “What ever has troubled you so to make you call out my little corner of the world?” 

Tom brushed his fingers over his mouth, wondering what the best way of tackling this subject would be? He supposed one piece at a time- 

“When you were living in the abbey,” Tom began, “with Lord Grantham’s father, did you ever have any servants or family members that were… like Thomas?” 

“Thomas?” The Dowager was clearly amiss, though she came back to herself at once, “Oh, you mean to say Barrow-“ 

“Yes.” 

“Well, whatever do you mean?” she tittered, “Do you mean to say did I know anyone who was sulky?” she tried for a laugh but Tom found none of it funny. The Dowager was sharp, he was certain she knew what he meant. 

“…Yes.” The Dowager finally answered, pursing her thin lips. She looked uncomfortable, “I had a few servants that were inclined to the artistic side of life, but that was not my business and mercifully they never made it public.” 

“What would you have done if they’d made it public?” Tom asked. 

“I would have thrown them out!” The Dowager was affronted by this point, her expression a mixture of shock and disgust. “Goodness what kind of a conversation are we having? Has Barrow done something ridiculous again?” 

Tom could tell he’d picked a bone in the wrong corner of the graveyard. He rose from the couch, deciding that at this point the best thing to do was leave. The Dowager might be confused, angry even, but there was no point in telling her the full truth if she couldn’t even handle a hypothetical conversation. 

“Thank you for seeing me, I apologize for intruding-“ 

“Tom sit back down, for heaven’s sake.” The Dowager snapped, scowling, “Tell me what’s wrong.” 

“I don’t want to bother you.” Tom admitted. God forbid he give her a heart attack and put her in an early (early?) grave. 

“You’re bothering me by keeping me in the dark.” The Dowager warned, drumming her bony fingers upon the armrest of her enormous chair, “Either tell me what’s wrong or stop being gloomy. You’re like Rosamund without the garish clothes.” 

“Well, I doubt you would be happy to hear what I have to say.” Tom said. The Dowager raised an eyebrow. 

“And why would you think that?” She asked. The silence stretched on between them for a moment as Tom sized up his advantages. 

He highly doubted the Dowager was going to ring the police when he told her though she would probably never speak to him again. She despised scandal, so she wouldn’t add to it herself… but she’d consider him a devil the minute she knew. 

Fine. So be it. If he was a devil at least he was honest. Their lot did not hold the monopoly on honor. 

“Because I’ve fallen in love with Thomas.” Tom declared. “And Mary caught us sleeping together, and now Thomas has been thrown out of the abbey. And I’ve decided I’m leaving for Boston and taking Sybbie and Thomas with me unless Robert can be convinced to give Thomas his job back. For which I came here to ask your opinion.” 

The Dowager said nothing for a second, her expression unnervingly calm as she picked up her bell and and rang it. Tom looked over his shoulder, half expecting the police with a leap of the heart. Instead it was just Spratt, bowing to the Dowager. 

“Spratt.” She ordered, “We’d like tea.” 

“M’lady.” Spratt closed the door again, leaving them alone once more. 

Tom looked back around, and watched as the Dowager put down her little silver bell and repositioned herself a bit better upon her chair. 

“Spratt must be delighted.” She declared, straightening the lace cuff of her mint green dress upon her bony wrist, “I rarely have company. A butler is never happier than when he is serving tea.” 

Tom stared at the Dowager, waiting for her to explode on him. He refused to take his seat on the couch, even as Spratt re appeared with a silver tray loaded down for tea. He served them both a cup, though Tom waved his off and refused to mention his preferences. Spratt knew not to push, instead bowing and backing up to the door so that the Dowager could pick up a cucumber sandwich and wave him off with the same hand. 

“Thank you Spratt, that will be all.” 

“M’lady.” Spratt closed the door. They were alone again. 

“Sit down, Tom.” The Dowager said. 

“If I do are you going to throw that teapot at me?” Tom asked as the Dowager took a small sip of her tea. 

“I’m much too fond of this set.” The Dowager warned, for her tea set was laced with maroon and pink flowers, “This is a Wedgewood Daisy- I got it on a trip to London probably thirty years ago. I’ve used it ever since.” She patted the tray like she might a well behaved labrador. 

“Sit down.” She repeated again.   
Tom sighed but acquiesced, unsure of what to do when the Dowager gestured for him to take tea. 

“…Are you going to die of shock?” Tom asked, unsure why the Dowager wasn’t exploding or yelling at him or calling the police-

“Hardly.” She said snootily. “But I do demand details.”   
At this, her voice took a colder edge, “Because I am quite certain you are out of your mind.” 

“Well I’m not.” Tom snapped, well aware he was bordering on impertinence with her. “We courted, I went to bed with him. Mary caught us, called Robert home from France, and Thomas was sent away.” 

“So that was why they came home so early.” The Dowager finally made the connection. “You mean to say you went to bed with him in the abbey?” 

“Naturally.” Tom said, still refusing to take tea, “Where else would I have gone to bed with him?” 

“That is your own business.” She scoffed, her cold tone returning. How weirdly apathetic the Victorian lot could be, “But never have relations in a large house if you can avoid it. Lord Grantham often took his business into town, I never felt the need to question it.” 

Tom wondered how many men and women in the village were bastards of Lord Grantham. How many illegitimate siblings Robert and Rosamund had. He still refused to take tea, and the Dowager finally put her own cup down with an irritable smack. 

It seemed her anger had finally set in. 

“Tom, I am old.” She said, as if this was not the most obvious thing in the world, “I have learned to deal with such matters through humor. I am well aware that you find none of this amusing, and neither do I. What do you want me to say? I can hardly wave a magic wand and make everything better. I am not your fairy god mother and I don’t approve.” 

“I’m leaving, then.” Tom said, for he was certain Robert’s eventual answer was going to be a ‘no’. “And I’m taking them both with me- Sybbie and Thomas. We’re returning to Boston.” 

“Tom, see sense!” The Dowager sounded more distressed by the idea of her great granddaughter going away than the idea of Tom and Thomas humping like rabbits. “Sybbie is well cared for at the abbey. She has everything that she will ever need-“ 

“And a house full of prejudice.” Tom crossed his arms over his chest, “How convenient.” 

“That has nursed you well until you decided to bite the hand that fed you!” She snapped. 

“The hand that slapped me in the face!”Tom’s voice rose just a tad bit too much for her liking. The Dowager smacked her cane tip upon the floor, her icy eyes glaring as she gripped the silver hand tight. 

“Tom.” She snapped, “That is enough, honestly. You’re acting like you’re Oscar Wilde on trial-“ 

“Aren’t I?” Tom asked, for that was a relatively good comparison. The Dowager, however, seemed to have finally gotten angry and she glared at him full out from her chair. Tea was abandoned, her wrath obvious as she spoke in cold tones. 

“No. You are not.” She warned, voice ugly, “You forget I witnessed the entire affair first hand… and I knew him personally.” 

Tom froze, amazed. He was amazed the Dowager had known Wilde. 

“I never cared for him.” The irritation and anger fled from her voice to be replaced by calm again. She picked up her teacup once more, taking another sip. “Far too chatty. The less said around the dining table, the better. This was before pre-dinner cocktails, you know…” She sighed, putting her teacup back down, “The face of the matter is, Barrow, like Wilde, is sick.” She did not look happy, pursing her lips into a narrow white line, “Sick in the soul, as my mother used to say. We need to pity him. Pity him and provide him with our support. He cannot get married, have children, at best he leads a half-life, a terribly bitter thing. You are very lucky, Tom. You have loved our darling Sybil, and bore a beautiful child by her. So what prompted you to stray from the path? Do you so enjoy being the underdog?” 

“I fell in love, I told you.” Tom said, slightly humbled by the Dowager’s words. 

“Well, fall out of it!” She grumbled with a wave of the hand. 

“It’s not that easy.” 

“It was for me.” 

“Then maybe you weren’t in love in the first place.” Tom said, instantly cursing himself when the words came out of his mouth. He paused, biting down hard as he looked away from the Dowager who was now staring at him once again with that unnervingly calm expression which frightened him more than her scathing tones ever could. 

“Tom.” She warned softly, “That is bordering on impertinence, even for you.” 

Tom coughed, determined to get off this dangerous topic as soon as possible, “So I can’t have your support.” 

“No, you cannot.” The Dowager snapped, “But you can have my sympathy. That’s all I can offer. Barrow needs to go, somewhere we knew well but away from the abbey…” She paused, thinking, “Perhaps he can hold down the London house, his lot always do well in London.” 

“…So that’s all to be said?” Tom murmured, reproachfully, “No you won’t help me and you want Thomas sent away?” 

The Dowager stared at him dully. “What else were you expecting? A staunch gladiator to take up the spear?” 

Tom sighed, rising up from his chair again. 

“…Lady Grantham.” Tom murmured, “I won’t bother you anymore.” 

The Dowager set down her teacup again with a soft chink. 

“I won’t add to your problems by telling Robert we’ve spoken on this, but I would ask you not to speak to me anymore on the topic. Not until you’ve come to some sense, at least.” The Dowager warned. 

Tom felt like she’d slapped him in the face, and left without another word. 

At the front door of the house, Tom had to take a few moments to compose himself as he reached for his coat and hat. Spratt was no doubt fending off Denker- god forbid if she’d overheard anything. But even as Tom reached for the doorknob, he was brought to a short pause by Spratt stepping out of a side room to walk briskly down the hall towards him. 

_Christ, here it comes_. Tom thought bitterly as he jammed his hat upon his hat and shrugged on his coat with haste. 

“Mr. Branson.” Spratt murmured, “A word?” 

Tom did not give his consent, instead staring at his shoes as slowly buttoned up the front of his coat. 

“…I’ve always kept my head down.” Spratt muttered softly, “I’m amazed Barrow last as long as he did, particularly after Kent?” 

Tom slowly looked back up, catching Spratt’s eye.   
Was he…   
Was he saying what Tom thought he was saying? Spratt’s expression was stoic and hardened like cooled steel. 

“…You heard about that?” Tom asked, curious. 

“Everyone heard about it.” Spratt said, rolling his eyes. 

“…Are you saying you’re like him? Like me?” Tom asked, carefully. Spratt glared. 

“I’m like him, yes.” Spratt snapped, “You are not the same as us. You have a choice in the matter.” 

Tom pursed his lips, trying not to take complaint in that. Spratt did, admittedly, have a point. 

“Her ladyship will be most displeased with the presenting of the facts today.” Spratt muttered, casting a glance back down the hallway. Tom had to wonder where Denker was hiding out. If she was close by. 

“I thought to gain an ally-“ he admitted. 

“Your problem is that you expect too much for too little.” Spratt advised. Given that this was coming from Edith’s agony aunt, Tom found himself rather willing to listen. Free advice from a columnist, who would have thought? “The family will not change their viewpoint so you must change yours instead. Keep your relations under ground and out of the abbey. Have them but have them in private.” 

“But why should we hide?” Tom demanded. 

“Jail, Mr. Branson.” Spratt said. Tom bit his tongue at the word, “Jail, asylum, social ridicule for your daughter, and exile from the family. You stand to lose everything.” 

Tom ground his jaw, on the verge of saying, “My love for him is worth everything.” 

But Spratt carried on, casting another wary glance over his shoulder: “Re approach his lordship in a mature manner and explain your situation. Be ready to accept his decline. Do it with grace and humility.” He turned back to Tom, opening the front door to finally let him out. “Do you think you can manage that, for the sake of us all?” He sneered. 

“Maybe.” Tom said, stepping out. He pursed his lips, looking back at Spratt, “Don’t write home about it.” 

“Not worth the stamp.” Was the final thing Spratt said, before closing the door in Tom’s face. 

 

 

The whole walk home and the rest of the night, Tom felt like something was gnawing at him in the pit of his stomach. All through dinner he sat silent, barely partaking in his meal as he instead mulled over a glass of wine and thought about what would come next. Should he re approach Robert? Should he try and make peace? Should he cut his losses and run? 

He was without allies and had never been more confused in his life. All he could do was follow his own heart at this point, and his heart ached for resolution. 

That night after dinner, Tom sat alone in the small library scanning book after book in the metaphysical section to try and find an answer to Thomas’ conundrum. It was with great intrigue that he managed to find a book called _“The Study of Spiritual Interference”_ by one Dr. Anya Saachi. 

He read aloud, trying to sooth his nerves as he went over a chapter about communication with the dead. A few paragraphs had come up about the ouija: _“Many users denote rules and rights of passage for safe experiences but four carnal rules apply to all men: To approach with humility at the beginning, to retract with humility at the end, to work in a place detached, and work with your fellow man. In short, to be respectful, say goodbye, use outside of the sleeping quarters, and always with another person.”_ Tom paused, flipping to the back of the book to see where the printing rights had come from. He was amazed to find it had started from a College of Psychic Studies, in London no less. There were colleges for such things? 

Thomas had always approached with humility… but there had been the one time Tom had caught him with the ouija board while in the bathroom of the nursery. He’d been alone then, and this book said to always use with another person. Was this where Thomas had gone wrong? 

The answers were just making more questions pop up, like always. Tom was tired of being in the dark. 

The door to the small library opened and Tom stopped reading aloud. He bookmarked his page, setting his book carefully upon his lap as he instead stared at the fireplace and watched the hearth burn. Did it matter who came to call on him? They’d probably just walk straight back out of the library—

But it was only Robert and Henry, both seeking a whiskey from the enormous crystal decanter on the side board. They poured a glass for one another, chuckling at some joke Tom was no longer privvy to. 

The corners of Tom’s eyes stung. He rubbed them fiercely, certain he was just exhausted. He sniffed heavily as Robert sat down on the couch across from him. Henry sat next to Robert, both of them smiling easily. 

It was like they’d forgotten Tom was in the room. It made his chest burn and ache. 

“Whiskey, Tom?” Robert offered. 

“No.” Tom shook his head, chin upon his fist. “No, not tonight. Thank you.” He curled a bit tighter into the corner of the couch, and rubbed at the corners of his eyes again. 

“I never thought I’d see the day when you’d turn down an Irish man’s drink.” Robert admitted, sipping on his own. 

“Did I tell you I saw the Earl of Duntham in London the other day?” Henry spoke up, “He was amazed at our stability. He wanted to know your secret.” 

“Crikey, so do I.” Robert chortled. “That makes two of us.” 

Tom said nothing as they dissolved into another conversation, book upon his lap and an ache in his throat. A hundred voices were piling up in his head, till Tom could understand exactly why Thomas thought there were marbles in in his brain. 

He felt so horribly miserable he didn’t know what to say anymore.   
Whose advice to take. 

His expression crumpled, despite how he tried to hold it together before the other men. For a moment they just kept talking and laughing, neither of them looking at Tom to notice his emotional despair. When they finally did glance back at him the conversation halted so abruptly it was like a light switch had been flicked. 

“I’m sorry-“ Tom bit out, knowing his distress was essentially ruining their good night. “You’d think I’d be used to it by now, wouldn’t you.” 

He took an enormous breath, determinedly reeling back in his emotions in the silence, “I just don’t know whose advice to take anymore. Everyone has an opinion but no one has an answer… and I just keep wondering, why can’t we be happy? Why must we live in misery?” 

“Tom, I know you’re upset.” Robert said reproachfully, setting down his whiskey, “But I need time to consider.” 

“Consider what?” Tom asked, “Are you expecting to get more information? You know all the facts-“ 

“It’s the fact that you keep it secret from me.” Robert admitted, and Tom would have been a fool to miss the emotional sting in his voice, “That you and him scavenged away like thieves in the night. Is that the stuff of love or rats?” 

“Well, you were in France.” Tom admitted, “I’d told him I was going to tell you the moment you returned. That was my honest intention, to tell you when you’d returned. But when Mary found out… she called you. That was never part of my plan.” 

“Mary is concerned for you, Tom.” Henry broke in. It was the first time he’d spoken to Tom in days, and Tom could not look at him in that moment. “There are things about Barrow that you don’t know. She’s angry you’re being fooled by his… admirations… for you.” 

An ugly biting anger hit Tom hard in the heart. He turned, glaring at Henry from across the couch. How dare he insist? What did he know of Thomas and his ‘admirations’? Nothing. Shit buggering nothing-

“She knows nothin’ about him or me.” Tom warned. 

Henry pursed his lips, “You say that, but she’s heard things about Barrow. Horrible things- She doesn’t know how to tell you-“ 

“Not another mystery.” Robert muttered into his whiskey. 

Tom wanted to tell them all to fuck off, to storm away from this couch cage and burn down the abbey for daring to insist that Thomas was anything but perfect. 

But he couldn’t do that, and Spratt had urged him to restate himself humbly if he ever wanted this horror to end. 

“No, not another.” Tom bit out, “Let Thomas come here, and we’ll all have it out.” 

“Tom, I really cannot take another fighting match.” Robert admitted. 

“It won’t be another fighting match.” Tom said, “No one will raise their voice. We’ll behave like civilized Englishmen.” 

“And what will you behave like, an Irishman paying for his drinks?” Robert tried for a joke, but it was feeble, and Tom could hear the sorrow in his voice. 

Robert was just as tired and confused as he was. Neither of them wanted to fight anymore. Perhaps, in a way, they even missed one another. Tom was Robert’s bizarre son-figure. Matthew had always been the savior of the family, but when Sybil had passed on Tom had almost been adopted in to fill the role of the baby boy that had died before birth. Robert had never been Tom’s father, he’d never needed that role filled, but it had been truly nice to be involved with another family again after losing his own. 

“…Robert.” Tom spoke up softly, catching the Earl’s eye, “If you fire him, I’ll leave and I’ll take Sybbie with me. I don’t want to do it. I don’t want to leave, but I won’t live without him.” 

Robert mulled that over with his whiskey, saying absolutely nothing. 

“I spoke with Spratt.” Tom admitted, “And the Dowager. Spratt thinks I should go underground. To do whatever I do out of eyesight, but… I don’t think you are a cruel man who would look at our love and see something sinful.” He paused, reproachful, “Do you? Do you see it as sinful?” 

Robert heaved an enormous sigh, boneless as he sank into the cushions of his couch, “No.” He finally admitted, “I see it as unnatural and odd, but not sinful.” 

That was a relief, Tom would not deny it. 

“Please.” Tom whispered, feeling his emotions rise again. How weak and feeble he felt, to plead with this man for the right to love. 

Cut off at the knees, not even allowed to smile without permission. 

“Please.” He mumbled, “Understand.” 

Robert raked a hand across from his face. Henry sat his own whiskey glass down, neither men willing to stomach the fact that, in all likelihood, they would never be able to understand. 

“I love Sybil with all my heart.” Tom whispered, “And I love Thomas just the same. I’m not asking for permission to snog him in the main hall or to marry him in the local church. But I need to be with him… and… and…” Tom tried for humility, to grapple with the fact that he would be allowed nothing even on a good day, “And it won’t be in your face. It won’t be in anyone’s face. But it will be. It will be because it cannot be any other way in my heart.” 

He blinked back tears, hating how much of a child he felt. “I used to think of this house as my home. Of the people who live in it as my family. Now I know that at best I will probably be an accepted outsider.” 

“No-“ Robert shook his head, “No, you are a member of this family.” 

“Then please-“ Tom pushed again, voice straining with grief. He wrung his hands, fists balled tight till his knuckles turned white. “Please, let me bring Thomas to the house. Let us speak about this frankly. Let us put this behind us and move forward.” 

He sagged a bit upon the couch. Robert’s eyes were glassy and unfocused, filled with emotion Tom could name. Could not understand. 

“Please.” Tom whispered, and fell silent. All that could be heard between them was the crackling of the fire in the hearth. 

Robert looked at Tom, unmoving. At Henry, unsure. At his whiskey, undrunk… and finally at Tom again. 

The emotion had cleared from his eyes: “Bring him to me.” 

 

~*~

The phone call had come late that night, almost near midnight, and Thomas had been the one to answer while Mrs. Hughes had washed up and Mr. Carson had used the lavatory. 

He knew when he heard the emotion in Tom’s voice that they’d reached the crux. The deciding battle. Whatever would be tomorrow would be the end result. Boston or Downton. America, or England. Acceptance or exile. 

So when he’d gone to bed that night, he had prayed for deliverance from the evil that shrouded him, and the next morning had gone up to the abbey dressed in his blue pinstripe suit. 

He’d arrived at the front door as Tom had bid, and reasoned that the his heart was calm simply because he’d already accepted the ‘no’ he was about to hear. The door opened to reveal Mr. Carson, who gave him a rather small wry smile as he left him in. 

“I’m behaving badly.” Thomas admitted as he shed his coat and his hat. Mr. Carson took both, despite Thomas trying to do the work himself, and hung them up on the visitors pegs. 

“Never mind that.” Mr. Carson said with small but honest affection, “In you get.” He closed the front door, locking out the cold. Thomas straightened his vest a bit around his narrow waist, quietly stepping into the entrance hall. He’d not been to the abbey in nearly two weeks now and he had to admit that he had missed it. Its splendor had painted his dreams in colors of bronze statues and antique china. 

“Best get on.” Mr. Carson admitted, the pair of them crossing the entrance hall to the library whose door sat ajar. “They’re ready for you.” 

“Thank you, for all the generosity that you’ve shown me over the past two weeks.” Thomas murmured softly. “Truly. It means more to me than you could ever know.” 

Mr. Carson said nothing to this at first, merely giving him another wry smile. 

“The arms are fair, when the intent of bearing them is just.” Mr. Carson riddled. Thomas paused, slightly irritated that Mr. Carson would choose now, of all moments to start up their Shakespeare game. 

“Henry the fourth.” Thomas said. 

“Act and scene?” 

“Act five, scene two, line eighty eight.” Thomas added, just for spite, “Now if you’ll excuse me.” 

Mr. Carson snorted, but let him pass first into the library.

Lady Edith and Lord Hexam were gone, had probably been gone for several days, and so the only family present were Lord Grantham, Lady Grantham, Lady Mary, Mr. Talbot… and of course Tom who stood leaning against the back of a scarlet couch. He turned about at the sound of Thomas’ approaching footsteps. 

They stared at one another and smiled. Despite how unwise the move might be, Thomas decided that he would not hide his resolve to Tom’s love and came to stand by Tom’s side before the Crawley’s while Carson shut the door and took his place back by the tea tray. 

No one was drinking their tea. How could they with the tension so thick in the air. 

Lady Mary looked bitter, her arms crossed over her chest in a pinstripe skirt and vest. Mr. Talbot was much the same, clearly on her side. Lord and Lady Grantham just seemed to be eager for the fight to be over. Once again, Thomas could understand. 

It had gone on long enough at this point. 

“Barrow.” Lord Grantham addressed him, rising up from the couch. Thomas dipped his head, in a show of humility as if he were still wearing his livery and bearing a tray. 

“M’lord.” He murmured. 

“Lady Mary has insisted that there is something you know which we do not.” Lord Grantham said, which gave Thomas pause as he scrounged his brain to imagine what this must be about, “Something which would shed poor light on your supposed affections for Tom. Do you know what she means?” 

For a moment Thomas was silent, wracking his brain, but he unfortunately came up negative. 

“No, I don’t.” Thomas admitted, shaking his head, “I have no idea to what you are referring, M’lady.” 

“Don’t play dumb.” Lady Mary snapped, glaring at him with such ferocity that Thomas began to truly wonder if he had acted maliciously. “It doesn’t suit you.” 

“I am genuinely lost, M’lady.” 

“So the name Philip Prevet is unfamiliar to you?” Lady Mary retaliated, “Or does your dalliance with a Duke count for nothing?” 

Mr. Carson nearly dropped the tea pot he was holding, absolutely horrified to imagine Thomas had sullied the bed of the gentry. Tom was one thing- he wasn’t a member of the family by blood. But the Duke of Crowborrow was another matter entirely, and Thomas felt the blood drain from his face as he realized what Lady Mary must have heard. Though god in heaven, who had told her? 

Surely not Philip himself? 

“…I don’t understand.” Thomas tried to hide the fact that his heart was pounding in his chest; caught out with one of his dirtier scandals, he didn’t know what else to say, “What does his grace have to do with Mr. Branson, M’lady?” 

“Well,” Lady Mary said in a sour tone, “How about the fact that you used him in an attempt to gain position and when he left you you threatened to blackmail him?” 

Everyone looked around at that, and none of them with friendly faces. In an amazing show of loyalty, Tom didn’t seem mad, instead merely curious as he looked at Thomas for an answer. Carson looked ready to vomit. 

And to think, he’d been growing to enjoy Thomas’ company. The fact of all Thomas stood to lose made him sick to his stomach. Made him pale and sweaty. 

“… Is this true, Barrow?” Lord Grantham demanded, aghast. 

“No, it is not, M’lord.” Thomas defended, for though in the ugliest of lights it was technically true there had been so many shades of gray in the situation that one definition didn’t explain it all. “I wonder where you got your information from, M-“ 

“Where I got it from is none of your concern-“ but Lady Mary’s usual upper hand would do her no good here. She’d officially strayed into a territory that Thomas knew too well. 

“It’s a great deal my concern, seeing as it would put Philip or I in prison if it ever got out that we knew one another, M’lady!” He all but had to raise his voice to make himself heard over Lady Mary, and knew that he was bordering on impertinence. 

“It was my hair dresser, if you must know—“ She sneered. 

Thomas couldn’t help it, he let out an ugly noise of irritation. 

“I am going to kill that man.” Thomas groaned into the palm of his hand, wondering when the next train to York was leaving and if he could catch it in time to break Paul Brickham’s little chicken neck. 

 

“Who?” Tom wondered, still in the dark. 

“Paul Brickham.” Thomas snapped, “A mincing lavender idiot from Southport with high paying clients that think he’s French!” and at this her turned to Lady Mary who was still scowling ferociously, “No it was not true, and I’ll gladly set the record straight if only for Tom’s sense of security, M’lady-“ 

“Don’t do it for me.” Tom raised his hands up in a defensive gesture, “I don’t doubt you.” 

Oh Tom. How he loved him in that moment. 

“It is admittedly true that I… knew… the Duke of Crowborrow during Lady Sybil’s coming out season when the family went to London.” Thomas felt like he was nude before a scrutinizing audience for how everyone was judging him on this tender subject. God, it had been years since he’d thought of Philip properly, to imagine there had been a time when they’d got on and had loved one another. 

Tom and Philip were nothing alike. 

“We… knew each other for quite some time.” Thomas admitted, internally reliving those wild months when he’d rolled in satin sheets and screamed out profanities to a velvet lined ceiling. Philip hadn’t been his first, but Thomas had felt like a virgin when they’d made love for the first time. Philip had been the first man to love Thomas. The first man to care for him when the sun had risen the next day. 

He had to snap himself out of his daydream. 

“For obvious reasons we kept it very private. His grace was under great financial strains and wanted to find an heiress to marry. You’ll recall how he came to Downton to court you, but left within the night, M’lady?” 

At this Lady Mary faltered, now suddenly the one to relive an old memory. Mr. Talbot turned to her, curious. 

“That was my doing." Thomas admitted, for there was no point in hiding in his shame now. “I told him by telegram that you had recently been opened up to the opportunity of heiress. Because I was stupid, and young, and loved him, and thought if I helped him get money he would stay with me.” Saying it out loud made him feel so base. So foolish. 

Thomas shook his head, feeling ancient and ugly, “What I was too foolish to understand was even if he had married you, even if he had gotten his fortune, that didn’t mean he was going to stay with me. That he even loved me. I was young… I… I didn’t know love’s limitations yet.” Thomas shrugged, “Of course, when it turned out that Lord Grantham was going to keep the entail and that Mr. Matthew was going to inherit, his grace informed me that he would have to go to New York to find money… To find a bride.” 

Thomas pursed his lips, memories flashing within his mind. Of a night with a fireplace that had burned hot and letters that had smoke in the grate. How it had stung- how he’d wept into his pillow that night to be so cast off. 

“I could see what was coming.” Thomas admitted, “I begged him to take me with him. To make me his valet, but of course he didn’t need a valet. He didn’t need me either. He never did, I suppose. But he couldn’t leave for New York without make sure that all evidence of our… connection… was gone. Including the mass of letters that he’d sent to me. That I kept in my-“ 

“In your room.” Lady Mary ended. She paused, growing pale. “You… kept them in your bureau didn’t you.” 

Thomas blanched. How had she known that? 

“I-“ He glanced up at her, reproachful, “Yes. How did you know that, M’lady?” 

She seemed to be overtaken with a grave understanding, and despite him asking her a question remained absolutely silent as she stared at the rug. Unsure of what else to do, Thomas continued on. 

“He didn’t know how much they meant to me.” Thomas admitted, “Maybe if he did, he wouldn’t have burned them in front of me. But he did; he tossed them into the fire… and I panicked. And I… said things I shouldn’t have.” 

_Said things I shouldn’t have_ , why not just admit to it? 

“Yes…” Thomas said bitterly, looking away from the family so that they could not see his shame. “Yes, I threatened him. I was heartbroken, and in shock, and I thought maybe in some insane world where the rules didn’t matter, he’d take it all back and stay with me. I was wrong.” 

It burned him to admit it. “I was wrong to threaten him when I loved him, and I was wrong to think that he loved me in the first place.” 

Jesus. That had taken just about all of his humility to scrounge up. 

“… but I did not frolic with a Duke for the sake of a paycheck.” Thomas repeated, fire returning to his voice. “You see, M’lady, men like me don’t frolic at all. The mere action of loving another human being, of having emotion or showing affection could get us killed. What we do, we do with intense strength of will, with great courage, and who we do it with must be worth the price we pay should we ever be caught.” 

The heat had fled from Lady Mary’s eyes though she was still quite grave. She looked like Thomas had just told her she had cancer. “And that’s why I am so appalled that Brickham would tell you so willingly about me and his grace. Because he’s like me and he suffers the same way I do!” 

It was a devious betrayal, he would not shy away from it. 

“Wow.” Tom mused, “What a scumbag.” 

“Who else would he tell, I wonder?” Thomas mused, bleak. “A vicar? The police?” 

“Try not to think on it.” Tom said, “Let’s just focus on the here and now, and what we can control.” 

“… I…” Lady Mary frowned, greatly disturbed, “I’m afraid I have very poor news, Barrow.” She did not look away from him. She was too brave to hide from shame, “His grace and I took a small walk into the attics, and he went through your room- he was… tearing through you bureau and night stand.“ 

The blood drained from Thomas face. 

“What?” Lord Grantham demanded agog. 

“That’s very rude.” Lady Grantham did not sound impressed. “What business did he have in someone else’s bedroom.” 

“But that’s just it, he was looking for the letters.” Lady Mary declared, “That must have been what he was doing, but this was before papa had told me that Matthew was to receive the entail… so that must mean Prevet had known from the start he was going to end the affair, and had come to Downton exclusively to do so.” 

“Well.” Lady Grantham snorted, “Not exclusively.” 

Thomas didn’t know what to say, so he remained silent.   
He tried not to let it burn him but it was hard. The idea of Philip trespassing into his room and tearing through his things made him feel like he was going to be sick to his stomach. 

He jumped a bit at the feeling of fingers upon the small of his back. Tom was giving him a gentle smile of understanding. 

Tom would never do such a thing to him, and for that Thomas loved him even more. 

“So you didn’t… you didn’t take up with Tom for some kind of a foot hold in the family?” Lady Mary asked, eyes narrowing slightly. 

“The idea makes me sick to my stomach, M’lady.” Thomas’ love for Tom made him shudder in that moment, sincerely disturbed by the thought. 

Silence persisted. Lady Mary slumped a bit into the couch, normally so stiff in posture but now clearly exhausted. Beside her, Mr. Talbot gently rubbed at her arm to show her his support and strength. Lady Grantham and Carson both looked to Lord Grantham, waiting to hear what he would say. Lord Grantham was tossing and turning with himself, forced to rise from the couch to pace a bit in order to think properly. 

“… Let me get this ironed out once and for all.” He began, voice firm, “You-“ He gestured to Thomas with a hand shaped like a baron’s flag, “You have great affection for Tom.” 

“Yes, M’lord.” Thomas bowed his head, knowing not to say more. 

“And you have great affection for Thomas.” Lord Grantham turned his hand to Tom, but Tom did not play the game. 

“I love him.” Tom corrected, refusing to bow in this one regard, “With all my heart.” 

Thomas flushed, unable to keep the heat out of his face. No one had ever said such things about him before, so bravely and openly. He likened Tom to an archangel in that moment.

Lord Grantham just didn’t know what to do. He looked to his butler in exasperation for enlightenment. “Carson what do you think of all this? What do you imagine my father would have done should he have found out his son had dallied with a male servant?” 

“I believe he would have thrown the servant to the police and promptly sent you to a monastery, M’lord.” Carson grumbled. He was probably on the money, “But you are the lord of this house, and it is your wish that we observe. Not your father’s, M’lord.” 

Lord Grantham tried not to look too chuffed about that. “That god for that,” Lord Grantham mused. 

“May I also say, M’lord, that while I think Mr. Barrow is a man of an odd nature, I also find him to be a man of good character. I would not have left Downton in his charge if I didn’t trust him. Completely.” 

The added word drew pause to Thomas’ normally pounding heart, and a completely different heat filled his cheeks. The idea of Mr. Carson trusting him or finding him to be a man of good character so moved Thomas that he clenched his mouth shut to make sure nothing stupid stumbled out. For so many years, a bitter burn had pained his heart at Mr. Carson’s indifferent attitude. To have his praise… it made Thomas want to weep like a child. 

“So what would you like to do, Barrow?” Lord Grantham demanded, hardly asking Thomas for his honest opinion, “Carry on as our butler while likewise being as you are with Tom? Do you not see how bizarre that sounds? How… how ridiculous?” Lord Grantham sighed, sinking back down onto the sofa next to Lady Grantham who patted his thigh endearingly. “The very notion makes me laugh.” 

But he did not laugh and neither did Thomas. 

“It doest not matter what I would like to do, M’lord.” Thomas said, as gently and humbly as he could muster in that emotional moment, “What matters is what you would like to do. Whatever you request, I will obey… because it has been my honor to serve this house and this family.” 

Lord Grantham took a minute to digest that, rubbing his chin with the back of his hand as he thought it all over. Tom kept his hand resolutely on the small of Thomas’ back. 

“You’re weak, Thomas.” Lord Grantham said, and Thomas noted the change in address. “I don’t think this a good idea. I think it will spiral, and you will… do something… something dangerous to yourself. Do you understand what I’m saying? When Carson told me that you’d…well…” He gestured to Thomas’ bandaged arms, hidden beneath shirt sleeves and cufflinks, “I don’t want you in that position again.” 

Thomas bowed his head at the ominous warning in Lord Grantham’s. Was he right or wrong? It was difficult to say. None of them could see the future. 

“M’lord, you are very kind to think of my situation,” Thomas paused, “But I urge you not to let that sway your judgement. If you want me to leave, I will leave.” 

Lord Grantham blanched at this, probably not having expected such words, “I don’t want to leave. I love the children, and the staff, and this family… and Tom…” Thomas looked down at the carpet, “But… I would be a fool to imagine that just because I… Because I care… means that I get to say. Do with me as you will, M’lord. But don’t let this trouble you any further. In a way I would almost prefer to leave than have you burdened by my presence.” 

He’d already lived as the black sheep for too long. He was tired of social outcast. 

Lady Mary sagged upon the couch, looking absolutely exhausted in that moment. “I judge you wrongly, Barrow.” She murmured with reproach. “And I am sorry.” 

“You had every right to judge me, M’lady.” Thomas could no longer summon the will to have pride or a backbone. He doubted he could have lifted a teacup to his lips in that moment. “I know that you have suffered in this, and I apologize profusely-“ 

“If he leaves, I leave." Tom cut across. Thomas was slightly taken aback by the sound of anger in Tom’s voice. 

“Tom, you can’t do that.” Thomas whispered, “You can’t take Sybbie away from this house, it’s too much—“ 

“I won’t have her raised around hate.” Tom snapped, loud enough so that the others could hear him, “We have our plan, we’re going to America.” 

“It’s not hate, Tom!” Thomas said with reproach, the family now witness to their conflicting distress, “It’s the world! This is the world we face, this is it! This is why I was nasty! I hated waking up knowing that this is what I had to live with… but this is it… and it doesn’t matter where we’d take Sybbie. It would always be the same. At least here we’re among people who know us, who care about us.” 

“Tom, don’t go.” Lady Mary requested, and for the first time in weeks there was reproach in her voice as she spoke to him. “Don’t take Sybbie away. Stay-“ 

“Stay and be hid in a closet like a freak.” Tom sneered, “How appealing.” 

“Don’t be unkind, Tom." Thomas warned, fearful their conversation would plummet into yet another shouting match. 

Tom was downcast and miserable, staring at the rug as he rubbed the back of his neck with a hand. “I don’t know what to do.” Tom admitted. 

“…Maybe…” Thomas’ throat stung as he spoke, “Maybe it would be better if…” but Tom was already shaking his head, “If I left-“ 

“No.” Tom wouldn’t hear of it. 

“Tom, maybe it’s me!” Thomas cut across, unable to hide from the voices in his head that pestered and assaulted him. Warned him he was a freak. “Maybe being around me has confused—“ But Tom cut him off, grabbing him tight by the upper arms. His eyes were wild, fearful of the end that might come. 

“No!” He declared in a loud voice- far too loud for the usual solemn quiet of the library. 

“Stop.” Thomas begged, trying to get away from his hold. Tom shouldn’t touch him in front of the family- it was a very poor idea when they were still under trail. “Let me go, you can’t touch me in front of them-“ 

“No, I won’t stop.” Tom refused to see sense, “Not when I love you so. I won’t have you talk that way about yourself. You saved me, you brought me back to life-“ 

“Tom, this isn’t something we can talk about in public-“ Thomas begged. 

“Thomas!” Tom shook him a bit by the arms, trying to get through to him. His hands were like fire upon Thomas’ skin, “Don’t deny me now, not when we’re here-“ 

“I’d never deny you.” Thomas assured him, “But I want you to be happy.” More than anything else, he wanted happiness. Calm. Peace. 

“You make me happy.” Tom rubbed his shirtsleeves with broad thumbs, stroking back and forth, “You an’ nothin’ else.” 

Thomas bowed his head, miserable. Had they been alone in that moment, they would have surely kissed. But now, before the family, all they could was hold to each other, and hardly romantically. Tom brought his right hand around the small of Thomas’ back so that they were pressed close, his left resting upon Thomas’ far elbow as Thomas gripped the underside of his arm with one hand and tucked his other tight beneath his armpit. 

The silence just seemed to stretch and stretch, weakening as Lord Grantham shifted in his resolve. 

“I don't know what to say, anymore, Tom." Lord Grantham admitted, “But mark me this Tom, the idea of you cavorting with him displeases me greatly. Particularly when he’s been through so much this past summer. I don't want there to be any physical activity in the house that I would disapprove of. I don't want the children to see it. I don’t want my daughters or wife to see it. What you do, you do in your own time under your own circumstances. Not my roof. And the minute that I see you… flagrantly cavorting about… I will have to take action. Am I clear?” 

Thomas didn't dare to make assumptions, too frightened to believe that Lord Grantham would actually be accepting. But the way he was speaking, it sounded like he was considering the concept of Thomas returning to the house. 

“Am I clear, Tom?” Lord Grantham repeated, for Tom was stiff at Thomas’ side. Thomas could feel the muscles in Tom’s arm jumping beneath his fingertips. 

“Yes.” Tom finally said, though it was clear that he was on the verge of being impertinent. 

“Then that’s all I can say.” Lord Grantham finally replied, bitter and quiet. “You keep your business private and we will not interject. Carson will go back into retirement… and Barrow will step back up as butler. And I don’t want to speak on this madness anymore, for any reason.” 

Oh my god.   
Oh my god, did he have his job back? 

Thomas drew a sharp breath, eyes sparking. “M’lord?” 

“You are my butler, Thomas.” Lord Grantham paused with pursed lips, “The rest… keep it private.” 

“I-“ staggered by this incredibly generous move of charity, Thomas could barely speak, “Of course M’lord. Of course. If it would please your lordship, Mr. Carson could act as my superior in the house… if it would make you feel any better?” 

Carson seemed to be mulling over the chance of once again being in charge, silently smug as he tilted his head from side to side. Lord Grantham seemed to be put at ease: “I admit, it would.” 

“I will gladly do as your lordship wishes.” Carson said. Beside him, Tom made a noise that Thomas did not like to hear; something between a snort and a scowl. 

Tom ought to be relieved, why was he still pushing corners? 

Thomas suddenly realized that, despite Lord Grantham’s demands they keep their relations private, Thomas and Tom were still touching. 

Determined not to get Tom in trouble so soon out of the gun, Thomas took a gentle step back and carefully detached himself from Tom’s hands. Tom stared at him bewildered, but then grew disappointed, his expression solemn and sulky. 

_Oh, Tom_ , Thomas thought miserably, _I never wanted any of this for you_. 

“I confess,” Lord Grantham admitted, “I don’t want you staying at the abbey anymore, Barrow. Not if you and Tom are… what you are-“ 

“Are you kidding?” Tom demanded, his tone escalating sharply. 

“Of course, M’lord.” Thomas spoke over Tom, desperate not to incite a fight. “I.. I’ll need some time to find a place-“ 

“I’ll gladly give you the leave you require.” Lord Grantham said with a wave of his hand. 

“Though I confess-“ Thomas frowned, thinking of his meagre savings. How much would it cost to rent a house? God— probably too much, “I don’t think I have enough in savings to… rent out a cottage as of this moment-“ 

“Perhaps,” Mr. Carson cut across, “You could be obliged to stay with Mrs. Hughes and I until you found a place?” 

Well, that was reassuring. After knowing that Thomas had sullied the bed of a Duke, Thomas had been certain Mr. Carson didn’t want him staying in the house again. At least he had a bed to sleep in tonight. 

“Good man, Carson. Good man.” Lord Grantham was most pleased by this show of generosity. He turned to Tom in that moment, seemingly content with the situation, “Very well Tom, you have your answer. Barrow can stay, but as our butler only. The rest is your own business and it stays outside of the abbey. Are you satisfied?” 

It was clear from the expression on Tom’s face that he was not satisfied. He looked down at the rug, his handsome face riddled with bitter disappointment. Thomas wished he could reach out to him, touch him and care for him. All he could do was try and meet Tom’s eye, giving him silent support. 

Tom would not look at him, lips pursed. Was it Thomas’ imagination or did Tom’s eyes look wet. 

“I’ll try to be.” was Tom’s final answer. His voice was hoarse. “Excuse me.” 

He stepped away, and left the library. Thomas watched him go, unable to follow after him. 

He wondered if his job at the abbey was worth the pain it caused in Tom.   
He was starting to think, _no._

~*~

The next morning, Thomas rose at the sharp hour of three to dress and ready himself for work. Carson and Hughes had already decided the night before that they would be coming to the abbey after breakfast to finally initiate Baxter as the new head housekeeper. This would likewise be the start of finding Lady Grantham a new maid, and so there was much to be done in Thomas’ eyes before noon. He found the house dark and without noise, Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes still asleep in their bed. As he passed on his way to the lavatory, Thomas paused at their door to peek his eye through the crack. Sure enough, an enormous lump underneath their quilted covers was shifting and snoring. Mr. Carson would not be up for another two hours at least. 

Satisfied, Thomas washed and shaved, trying to reason with himself that as awful as today was surely going to be, he’d suffered worse before. He’d dealt with the fall out from Jimmy, hadn’t he? He’d returned from war to find no one wanted him back, and still he’d persisted. No, he just needed to keep his head down and do his work. Eventually this would all blow over. 

Eventually. 

Thomas felt a bit like a circus performer putting on a tutu as he pulled on his livery for the first time in two weeks. The rain had nearly ruined it, but Mrs. Hughes had washed and starched it to perfection, allowing Thomas to iron it the night before so that he was completely ready come the next morning. Straightening his tie and combing his hair, Thomas headed downstairs as quietly as he could to find that Mrs. Hughes had left him an apple and a small pie upon the kitchen table. Chuffed, he picked both up to promptly stuff them in his face. 

The walk back to the abbey was a quiet one, and for the most part he made his way in the dark. When Thomas was finally approaching the great lawn, the sun slowly started inching its way over the horizon turning the sky the darkest shade of blue instead of black. The servant’s area was cold and still, wood yet to be chopped stacked in a neat pile under the overhang and the outside table dotted with the final remnants of melting snow. He unlocked the back door and stepped inside to find the downstairs quiet and dark. The only one up, as of yet, was Mrs. Patmore who would no doubt be getting the fires ready in the kitchen. Eager to avoid her, Thomas brushed off his soles upon a wire mat and hung up his traveling coat and hat. 

He barricaded himself in his office, glad to be back. In his absence, Carson had moved pictures and documents to their old spots so that Thomas briefly didn’t know where things were. He had to spend a good fifteen minutes putting everything right, and when he finally did he felt much relieved. 

The first order of business was to correct employee files and plot out the days schedule. Then Thomas would have to check on the possible candidates for lady’s maid, and see if any were prospective ones. Judging by the stack of paperwork looming on his desk… he was going to assume yes. 

As Thomas prepared for the day, he could hear activity outside his office escalating. People were getting up, arriving, and wanting breakfast. They would all know Thomas was back, and would surely have something to say. 

But he’d survived Jimmy and the war, if that wasn’t proof enough of his resilience, what was? 

As the hour struck 6:15, and the mantle clock in the hall chimed, Thomas rose from his chair and bid a final farewell to his sanity. Now was the hour of violence, when the dogs would come out to play, and so he left his office to stride down the hall towards the servant’s hall. The day maids did not arrive until after breakfast and so the house was only populated in the wee hours by those servants still lucky enough to be in the top ten. The Bates from their cottage, Baxter and Andy from the attics, and that was all. The lone hall boy Peter often took his meals in the kitchen with the scullery maid Gertie, and so it was that when Thomas rounded the corner to enter the hall he was greeted by four pairs of eyes all eager to get a peek at him. 

The vultures. 

It took them a second to remember what they were supposed to do, but Baxter lead the charge as she jerked out of her seat. Up went the Bates and Andy, all of whom were staring at Thomas like he had dirt on his face. Thomas jerked out his seat at the head of the table and slowly sat down, deciding not to comment on the way they were gaping to instead fish and ferry through the mail. Mostly it was just bills that he would have to pay from the estate’s account- nothing major. A new workbook Andy had ordered for cursive had come in, so Thomas sent it around the table. Likewise Anna had a letter from someone named ‘Catherine Smith’, probably her sister, so Thomas sent that her way too. 

“Alright, here we are!” Mrs. Patmore boomed from the doorway, bringing in a massive platter full of bowls oatmeal, fried bread, butter, black pudding, and poached eggs. Everyone got a share as Daisy handed out the silverware. Traditionally the butler served, but it seemed Mrs. Patmore had decided this honor should still fall to her alone. 

Thomas noticed Daisy surreptitiously handing Andy a note along with his silverware so that he gloated and gleamed with his eyes downcast. Likewise Thomas noted his own set was still missing a knife. 

Honestly, these people. 

“Daisy, scutter off and get me the coffee and tea.” Mrs. Patmore commanded as soon as Daisy was finished laying out the silverware. 

“Yes, Mrs. Patmore!” she replied, off like a firecracker back around the table and out the door. Mrs. Patmore suddenly leaned herself upon Thomas’ chair, her weight making the wood squeak as she put a hand upon her massive hip. 

“Well.” She declared with a huff, “Look who it is!” 

“Good morning, Mrs. Patmore.” Thomas did not even look at her, keeping his tone neutral as he began to open the bills. It seemed it was time to pay for the electricity again… heavens it felt like the price was steadily climbing. 

“Don’t good morning me!” She barked. Thomas still didn’t look at her, instead accepting a cup of tea from Daisy as she passed around the table with a round of old ceramic mugs. “I fI haven’t seen your face I’ve been hearing your name!” 

“Thank you Mrs. Patmore.” Thomas said in an ending fashion. She made several angry noises in her mouth, turning away to storm back into the kitchen though Daisy did not follow. Instead, Thomas watched as Daisy put down a cup of hot coco next to Andy’s plate, clearly a sign of favoritism. My god, were they ogling each other? Daisy was flushed, chewing upon her bottom lip as Andy eyed her up and down- 

His eyes were staying on her chest for way too long. 

“Andy.” Thomas spoke up, determined to cut any nonsense in the bud before it started. Andy jumped in his seat, shocked at being caught. Daisy fled back to the kitchen. “I want you to work today with Peter teaching him how to polish crystal. It’ll be an important tool to learn, and the family has nothing really pressing going on today. Anna,” Thomas turned in his seat, noting that even as he spoke to her Anna was still pursing her lips clearly holding in her own harsh comments. “Ms. Baxter is going to be slightly busier than usual today as she changes over from lady’s maid to head housekeeper. We’ll be doing interviews with Lady Grantham’s permission to find her an alternate, but until we do, would you mind taking over the occasional task for her ladyship?” 

“I don’t mind.” Anna replied, glancing down at the letter next to her plate. “As a matter of fact, I have someone I’d like to put forward for the job.” 

Oh why not, “Certainly. Come to me about it after breakfast and we’ll go over the details.” 

The bells started ringing on the call board behind Thomas’ chair. Baxter stood up with a weary smile. “I’ll take care of her ladyship this morning.” She said, catching Thomas’ eye. 

“As you wish, we won’t begin truly till later when Mr. Carson arrives.” 

So off Baxter went, leaving Thomas at the mercy of three less-than-willing employees all of whom were staring at him like he had sprouted a second head. He took a sip of tea, tried to eat a bite of fried bread, before relenting and glancing back up to glare at them all. 

“What?” He demanded. 

Anna sat absolutely still, clearly disapproving. 

“I suppose you’ve been having a nice time at the Carson’s?” Bates sneered into his coffee cup. Thomas curled his fingers into a fist, considering all the hell he’d been through as of late. 

“No.” Was all he said, resuming his concentration on his breakfast. 

“Funny, I was under the impression you were lazing about on their couch.” 

_I’m going to murder you_ , Thomas decided in that moment. _Not today and not tomorrow but one day… I am going to murder you_. 

Was he really going to? No. _Yes_. No…   
_… yes_. 

Breakfast passed without further conversation as bells continued to ring. Eventually it was just Thomas and Andy at the table, and then it was time to feed the family. 

“I’ll serve breakfast alone, Andy.” Thomas said, rising up from his chair, “If you bring up the trays, I’ll do the rest.” 

“Yes, Mr. Barrow.” 

The way to the stairs was clear for the most part, but as Thomas attempted to head up he was intercepted by Daisy who dodged out of the kitchen to grab his hand upon the rail. 

“Is it true the family is letting you stay on?” She asked with an eager smile. 

“It is." Thomas said, “And don’t think I didn’t notice that note to Andy at breakfast.” 

Daisy flushed with a small smile, “Thought I’d take a leaf out of your book.” 

“Careful.” Thomas warned, for that was a dangerous path to take. 

“Daisy!” Mrs. Patmore barked from the kitchen, her voice echoing through the door, “Get back in here and start the tea for the upstairs! Are you deaf?!” 

 

 

Upstairs, Thomas carefully laid out the dining table, aware the clock was ticking until the family came down. At this point his thoughts were consumed by Tom, and how awful he must be feeling. That look of betrayal and bitterness had haunted Thomas all night, making it difficult to sleep. 

Andy came in bearing one tray at a time, and by the end Thomas had laid out all the silverware to take his place against the buffet table corner. The last thing Andy brought it was the tea tray, and he laid it out carefully. Thomas noted that Andy seemed to be working up the nerve to speak. 

“…It is true?” Andy finally asked. “All they’re saying about you and Mr. Branson?” 

“That will be all, Andy.” Thomas refused to comment on it. At this point, Tom’s safety was on the line. They’d have to set him on fire to get him talking. 

Andy seemed to debate fighting Thomas on the subject, but Thomas’ glare had the final say. Andy left without another word, slight betrayal on his face. He would get over it. 

They all would. 

The first member of the family to come down was Lord Grantham. He opened the door to the dining hall and found Thomas in Carson’s old spot. Bizarrely enough, he seemed quite satisfied and began loading down a fine porcelain plate with a full breakfast. Thomas often wondered what his doctor would say if he knew how much Lord Grantham was consuming during meal times. Hadn’t he been on a strict diet since his gastrectomy? 

Supposedly? 

“Ah, back into the swing of things, Barrow?” Lord Grantham addressed him. 

“Yes, M’lord.” Thomas bowed his head. 

“Very good.” Lord Grantham took his seat at the table, and Thomas quickly pulled out his chair. “This house feels like it’s been through a war as of late.” 

He began eating at once, reading the Yorkshire Times. 

The next to come down was Mr. Talbot. He seemed slightly gray as if he hadn’t slept well, and nodded at Thomas as he filled up his own plate. Thomas noted that, as he made to fill up Mr. Talbot’s coffee cup, Mr. Talbot ensure that he had more than his adequate share. Clearly someone was trying to wake up. 

“Morning.” Mr. Talbot mumbled, taking his seat across from Lord Grantham. Due to rank, Thomas did not pull out his chair. 

“Sleep well?” Lord Grantham asked. 

“Mary certainly did.” Mr. Talbot admitted, “I could barely shut an eye I was so restless.” 

“I know just the thing to remedy it.” Lord Grantham said, “A car race, though I doubt you’d find a racetrack open in this icy weather.” 

“Oh I don’t mind driving on ice.” Mr. Talbot said. This was an understatement- he’d nearly thrown Thomas out of a speeding vehicle once due to his delight. The man needed an exorcism to cure him of his demons. 

But even as Thomas contemplated that humorous scene, the door opened again and Tom entered. 

Tom froze at the sight of Thomas in tails holding the coffee kettle. He seemed transfixed, frozen like a deer caught in a hunter’s gaze, and did not make to fill his plate until Lord Grantham coughed and Tom jumped. 

He started filling up his plate, but he had far less food than Mr. Talbot or Lord Grantham. Honestly, he needed to eat more, or he would be hungry. Thomas tried to catch his eyes as Tom came slowly near the end of the buffet table where he stood. As they came to stand side by side while Tom put back bacon upon his plate, he glanced at Thomas with miserable eyes. 

He reached into his pocket, then up to the buffet table. As he picked up the serving forks for the back bacon, he dropped a folded piece of paper. 

Thomas carefully picked it up, using two spreading fingers to open the note upon the buffet table out of sight of the rest of the family. 

_“Serving Closet”_ it read, a clear indication of where Tom wanted to meet Thomas later. 

Thomas folded up the note again, bringing his hands back to his sides. As he did so, he slipped the note in his pocket. 

They were much more sneakier than Daisy and Andy, that was for sure. 

Tom took his place at the table, taking up a copy of the local Downton paper which he turned immediately to the classifieds while Lord Grantham and Mr. Talbot spoke at length on racetracks soon to open with the turn of the season. Thomas watched Tom unabashedly, transfixed by the man. 

Every so often Tom would glance up at him, but could never crack a smile nor speak. 

_This is hell_ , Thomas wondered. _This is truly what hell feels like_. 

“I say.” Mr. Talbot spoke up, trying to break the awkwardness upon the air, “You’re making a close study.” 

“Just the classifieds.” Tom finally answered, his tone clear that he didn’t enjoy making conversation, “I heard tell there were some estate sales going on in the village. I’m curious as to what will be on the market.” 

“I doubt they’re selling a car.” Mr. Talbot sighed, as if this was the greatest shame in the world. Tom smiled tersely but said nothing else, continuing right on with his reading. 

 

After breakfast, Thomas took great lengths of time to pull himself together in the servant’s closet on the far end of the dining hall. Normally this was rather a straight forward job. The scullery maid Gertie met him on the other side as he handed off finished trays of food, and ferried them back downstairs to the kitchen to be washed and prepared for luncheon. Thomas then pull together all the remaining cutlery, plates, glasses, and china so that the dining hall could be cleaned by the maids in between meals. Flowers were refreshed, floors were swept… it was all a very neat display. 

Today, as Thomas handed off the final tray to Gertie, he took much more time than necessary sorting the clean dishes and silverware. 

He did not have to wait long. 

The door to the servant’s closet opened, and there was Tom on the other side bearing a tiny pathetic smile. 

He looked exhausted, the poor thing. 

“Robert’s in the library with her Cora, Henry went upstairs to fetch Mary. We’re alone.” Tom said, shutting the door behind him. 

No more need be said. 

They embraced at once, Thomas throwing his arms tight around Tom’s neck. Finally able to be alone in an enclosed space, Tom brought his arms tight about Thomas’ back to essentially swoop him in. He kissed Thomas softly upon the cheeks and lips, their tongues intertwining momentarily for their joy of being alone at last. 

Of being free of worry and grief. 

“My darlin’.” Tom mumbled into his skin. “Thank god it’s finally fuckin’ over.” 

“We’ve got to keep quiet.” Thomas whispered, afraid of being overheard or caught so soon out of the barrel. “We have to make sure we’re alone every time, we can never let our guard drop.” 

“I know, I know.” Tom whispered, pulling back to kiss Thomas upon the brow again. “That’s why I was lookin’ in the paper this morning. I’m going to start searching for a house.” 

“A house?” Thomas asked, confused. 

“Yes…” Tom smiled, kissing Thomas again. He seemed captivated by Thomas’ expression in that moment, and ran his fingers repeatedly over Thomas’ lips, “A house in the country. Where we can be alone, an’ happy.” 

“Oh Tom,” Though the idea shot sparks of delight into his stomach, he doubted it could come to much good, “The family would be furious-“ 

“I don’t give a shit anymore.” Tom grumbled, his ugly words peppering Thomas’ skin as he kissed him. 

“Don’t be bitter,” Thomas’ words were drowned by Tom’s lips, and it seemed for a moment that Tom was desperate to engulf him. To swallow him whole.   
Thomas doubted he would resist. 

“Make me love the world again,” Tom whispered in his ear, pinning him tight to his body so that Thomas squirmed a bit while his livery began to crease, “Before my heart turns dark.” 

The idea of Tom’s heart turning dark in any sense made the bottom drop out of Thomas’ stomach. “No my darling.” He touched Tom’s cheeks, feeling the flushed skin heat up. It seemed he inspired a fire in Tom now a days. Tom gazed at him, pressing their foreheads together so that his smoldering eyes were practically against Thomas’ own. 

“Don’t say that. Don’t be that way. Be happy and full of light and joy. Don’t let the dark drown you out.” Thomas urged. 

“I’ll make our happiness.” Tom declared. “I’ve been readin up on the ouija, like you asked me to. Turns out there are rules for using the ouija, there’s this College for Psychic Studies in London… South Kensington.” Tom grinned, “I think I should call them and ask them about their experiences.” 

“What if they're frauds?” Thomas wondered. 

“At least it’s a start.” Tom soothed him, and kissed him softly upon the lips again. Thomas was captivated by the smell of his cologne, a dark peppery scent. “Let me call them.” 

“Alright.” Thomas smiled dreamily, wanting to smell that cologne again. He leaned his nose in and sniffed just below Tom’s ear… oh how it filled him. “Thank you for believing me.” 

“Darlin, I’m always on your side- are you sniffin’ my neck?” Tom cut off. Thomas grinned, drawing in an obnoxiously long breath through his nose just to prove his point. 

“Mmm.” Thomas murmured, “You smell so good. Like a man.” 

“D’you like my new cologne.” Tom bent low to whisper in his ear. “I’m wearin’ it for you.” 

“Oh you shameless heathen.” Thomas teased, but even as he licked Tom’s neck and chased that scent right to the lobe of his ear (which he suckled at), the sound of feet approaching from the other side of the servant’s closet gave Thomas’ heart a jolt. 

He panicked, yanking open the door to the dining hall and shoving Tom out of it before hurriedly shutting the door again and pretending to continue polishing silver wear. 

The door to the servant’s hall opened to reveal Mrs. Hughes. Thomas’ heart was still pounding, he could barely look at her as she gave him a gentle smile and rubbed his back. 

“I’ve come to help Ms. Baxter- or Mrs. Baxter, rather, adjust to the role of housekeeper.” Mrs. Hughes said, “Are you ready to get started?” 

“Yes, Mrs. Hughes.” Thomas mumbled, putting away his polishing clothes.   
She touched his cheek where Tom had left a heat, and Thomas’ jumped as if shocked. 

“Hush now.” She said reproachfully, taking him tenderly by the arm to pull him into the servant’s hallway. If only she’d known that just seconds ago Thomas had been sucking on Tom Branson’s ear lobe. “The worst is over.” 

 

Was it? Thomas couldn’t tell. 

Downstairs they went, with Thomas constantly rubbing at the side of his neck where Tom had been sucking and kissing. His lips felt swollen, his face hot. He found it incredible that the fact of what he’d been doing was not in some way painted across his face. Still, no one stopped him as he returned to his office and found Mr. Carson inside. Irritatingly enough, he was re arranging things on the desk to the way that he liked and them and was even sitting in Thomas’ chair. 

Well, Thomas supposed it still was his desk and his chair to some extent. 

“Mr. Carson.” Thomas murmured as Mrs. Hughes closed the door. 

“Ah. Mr. Barrow.” Mr. Carson sat up straight in the chair with a keen look in his eyes. “I trust breakfast has been attended to? What duties have you put the household on?” 

“Yes sir.” Thomas said, pulling out his visitor’s chair so that Mrs. Hughes could get off her feet. Today she wore her peach blouse with the angel brooch Thomas had given her for Christmas. “Andy is showing Peter how to polish crystal while the family has no prior requests.” 

“And the maids?” Mr. Carson asked, jotting everything Thomas said down on a small spiral notepad. 

Thomas blanched. He’d not given the maids a specific job to do today. 

“…Doing… maidly things, I’m sure.” Thomas blustered, running a hand repeatedly through his oiled hair. Mr. Carson’s eyes flashed. 

“Thomas…” Mrs. Hughes warned. 

“I forgot!” Thomas admitted, knowing the jig was essentially up. How could he lie to Mrs. Hughes? “I don’t usually deal with them!” And this was the damn truth for, as far as he was concerned, the maids were housekeeper’s concern. 

“You deal with everyone as the butler!” Mr. Carson corrected, and suddenly Thomas was back to being a footmen getting scolded over polishing blunders. 

Affronted, Thomas left his office at once to find the damn maids and figure out what they were up to. The problem was the maids were like pigeons in a rafter, rarely settled in one area for long, but by a strike of good fortune he heard a gaggle of voices coming from the linen closet and went to investigate. 

He found Baxter inside, the maids about her in a circle with piles of linens in their hands. Clearly they were doing some kind of swapping arrangement. 

“Mrs. Baxter.” Thomas address her with her new title; Baxter glanced up with a sweet smile, unable to hide her affection even in front of so-called strangers. The day maids hardly got friend with the old crowd. “I was looking for you. Mrs. Hughes is ready to speak with you in my office.” 

“Mr. Barrow.” Baxter turned about to face the maids again, “Pip pip, let me know if you have any trouble.” And with that she left following him back down the hallway. 

 

Mrs. Hughes offered Baxter a warm smile when Thomas opened the door, but Mr. Carson was still scowling in Thomas’ stolen chair. 

“Ms. Baxter, how good to see you-“ 

“Mrs. Hughes, thank you so much for this opportunity-“ 

Mrs. Hughes tried for diplomacy but Mr. Carson would rather be caught with his trousers down than let Thomas get off easy. 

“Hopefully you will make better use of it than Mr. Barrow, who cannot seem to remember that he is in charge of everyone both male and female alike!” Mr. Carson harrumphed. Thomas pursed his lips, looking over his shoulder at Baxter who offered Mr. Carson a tight lipped smile. 

She always smiled like that; like she was exhausted. 

 

“I put the maids to cleaning duty. Half are giving the linen room a good scrubbing over, half are upstairs working out the dining room and sitting room.” Baxter said. Mrs. Hughes seemed mildly impressed by this, though her brow was furrowed. 

“I… told her to do that.” Thomas lied, attempting to get Mr. Carson to stop glaring at him. Both Mrs. Hughes and Baxter looked around, quizzical. “…In my…” He stuttered, tapping his skull, “In my mind. I told her to do that in my mind.” 

Well great. He didn’t sound like a mug at all. 

Mrs. Hughes rolled her eyes, giving absolutely no indication to Thomas’ lie that she believed him or not. Mr. Carson rubbed his brow, sagging a bit in the swivel chair. 

“Ms. Baxter— Mrs. Baxter.” Mrs. Hughes corrected herself with a smile, “The reason I offered the position to you is because I believe in your abilities. The role of housekeeper is one of greatest importance and requires excellent qualities to facilitate the smooth running and up keeping of the household. You will be responsible for overseeing the maintenance of all the domestic staff, seeing to their welfare while ensuring that the duties of the female staff are discharge properly on a daily basis. Do you have any questions, to that regard?” She asked. 

“I don’t.” Baxter assured her. 

“Oh goody.” Mr. Carson grumbled, looking out the window, “At least one person knows how to do their job.” 

Thomas scoffed, rolling his eyes. Fuck up once and you were the devil, clearly. 

“Mr. Carson-“ Mrs. Hughes need say no more, her eyes narrowing. Mr. Carson drummed his fingers irritably upon the desk. 

“Mrs. Baxter,” She turned back with a hesitant smile, “It is your job to instill the importance of punctuality, method, and attention to detail in all matters. There can be no slackening of standards in this house, no matter how the times change!” She warned, her voice rising just a hair. 

“I understand, Mrs. Hughes.” Baxter assured her. 

“I needn’t tell you that the one exception to your overseeing with be Mrs. Patmore.” Mrs. Hughes tried for humor, “She can take care of herself.” 

Baxter chuckled, bowing her head in humble if honest defeat, “I wouldn’t dream of it, Mrs. Hughes.” 

 

 

Mrs. Hughes took over Baxter’s training from their, the pair of them leaving the office and heading out into the house to observe different parts of the job. Thomas was left alone in his office with Mr. Carson, who got up out of the chair to check on fine silver cabinet and promptly lost his seat as Thomas sat back down and re-arranged his desk. Mr. Carson watched, tutting concernedly as Thomas carefully took down the framed picture of Lady Mary and Mrs. Hughes. 

“Here.” He said, laying them atop one another so that Mr. Carson would have them back. “I’m sure you’ll want to take these home.” 

“And what would you put on the desk to replace it, I wonder?” Mr. Carson asked. 

“Well, I wanted to get a picture made of Sybbie and George with me.” Thomas admitted, “But I don’t know when I could manage that. I’d like a picture of Tom and Sybbie- I’m sure I can find one-“ 

“I do not approve of a picture of Tom Branson being on my desk.” Mr. Carson warned. Thomas clenched his jaw, glancing up to find that Mr. Carson was before him with his hands clasped behind his back. 

“And I would like my seat back.” Mr. Carson warned. 

Thomas would have to concede to the seat lest he be thrown into the fires of hell, but as he came around the desk he gave fair warning to the rest, “I should remind you, Mr. Carson, it’s my desk now and you had a picture of Mrs. Hughes on it—“ 

“Cheek, Thomas.” Was all Mr. Carson had to say as he retook his seat behind the desk. 

“… I’ve had a difficult morning.” Thomas looked away, rubbing his brow. Once again, he found it shocking that Mr. Carson did not see on his face the evidence of his prior sins. 

He wondered if Tom would be able to find them a farm. If they would even get the clearance to live their and have a life filled with happiness instead of misery and shame. 

Thomas considered Tom’s distraught face, he’d never wanted such sorrow for him—   
A faint knocking on the door broke Thomas’ train of thought. He looked over his shoulder to see Anna poking her head in. 

“Ah! Anna.” Mr. Carson greeted her with a steady smile. 

“I’m sorry-“ She looked about, “I didn’t mean to intrude-“ 

“It’s perfectly alright.” He assured her, and Anna stepped inside to close the door. Thomas noted she was holding the letter she’d received over breakfast in her hands. 

“I assume this is about the person you wanted to put forth for Mrs. Baxter’s old job?” Thomas asked. 

“It is.” Anna said, unfolding her letter so that she could read from it, “I wanted to put forth my younger sister, Catherine. She’s been working for a house in York and has lost her position quite recently. They’re downsizing.” 

The same story everywhere, it seemed. 

“She’s a ladies maid there, in a rather large house, and I think she’d work hard if given the chance.” Anna explained. 

“I’m sure she would.” Mr. Carson said, “Have her come in.” 

“Well, first we’ll call for her references.” Thomas added. “So let’s not make haste-“ 

“I’m sure her references are fine, “Mr. Carson dismissed with a wave of the hand, “Have her come in as soon as she’s ready-“ 

“Yes, but she has to interview first, at least?” Thomas demanded. 

At this, Mr. Carson just chortled. “Mr. Barrow, she is Anna’s sister. I’m sure she does not need an interview.” 

“Then…” Anna looked from Thomas to Mr. Carson, unsure of whom to take orders from at this point, “Should I tell her to come in tomorrow?” 

“Please do.” Mr. Carson tipped his head.   
Thomas ground his jaw but said no more. 

Favoritism, absolute favoritism. He couldn’t stand it when he viewed it with such..such… ease! 

Oh, she was Anna’s sister so immediately she got the job? What if she wasn’t good enough at it? What if someone else would be better, local perhaps, and desperate to find work? How many men and women had been denied employment just because someone else had a ‘friend’ that needed a job too? 

Thomas could recall his interviews with Mr. Carson.   
All four of them. 

The very first time he’d approached Downton abbey, he’d been a junior footman desperate to scale the ladder. Mr. Burland, his old butler, had heard of a position from a good friend of his who had worked as a butler in Chestpeak Estate (which had closed five years ago due to lack of money). He’d mentioned, in turn, that the butler Charles Carson, of Downton Abbey was looking for a junior footman in a large and illustrious house. 

Mr. Burland had given him several days off, bidding the cook, Mrs. Walsh, to pack him several sandwiches and sending him on his way so that he could try his luck. Mr. Carson had been younger then, with more black in his hair and a thinner face. He’d wanted to know about Thomas’ experience and credentials, and had then sent him away to call his references. Thomas had then come back the next day, and had found that Mr. Burland had given him a glowing report but the housekeeper Mrs. Hughes wanted to ask him her own questions. Thomas was then grilled on his habits and methods, his lifestyle and family. This by far had been the hardest interview. Thomas was certain he had lied through most of it, completely unaware Mrs. Hughes already knew the full truth. Then Thomas had been sent away again, and had come back the next day for a third interview of the physical kind. Mr. Carson had wanted to see his polishing method, and Thomas had proceeded to buff away both silver and crystal. He’d been sat next to another young man from Manchester who’d likewise been applying for the job. Mr. Carson had wanted to see the differences in their skill levels. 

They’d been about the same, so Mr. Carson had sent him away again. The next day, however, Thomas had received a telegram at the Grantham Arms, telling him that there was to be an impromptu dinner party at the house and that his skills were needed. He came back to Downton Abbey for the last time, and had been dressed in a footman’s livery to work upstairs around the dinner table. 

Mr. Carson had been so impressed by Thomas’ skill that he’d hired him that night without further consulting Mrs. Hughes, calling Mr. Burland in London to tell him not to expect Thomas back. Thomas had been sorted with his room (a smaller room across from Andy’s current living quarters that he’d once shared with the long gone hall boy, Harold), and had been welcomed to Downton Abbey. 

Thank god too. Thomas had almost been out of sandwiches. 

This was why Thomas had felt so damn irritated by Bates. Not only had he come in without an interview, he’d been a damn nuisance at his job. He couldn’t carry, he couldn’t lift, he had no prior experience as a valet, and frankly was a disgrace until he’d gotten into the swing of things a few months after arriving. Had he gone through the same trials as Thomas, Thomas was certain he’d been cut from the budget after the third trial when his skills would have been put on display. Now Anna’s sister Catherine was in the same boat. Was she good at her job? God, he hoped so. Otherwise Lady Grantham was in for a difficult surprise. 

 

The next morning, Thomas sat alone in his office waiting for Catherine Smith to arrive. Anna had been given leave by Lady Mary to pick her sister up at the train station, and the pair of them would be arriving back to the house around noon. Mrs. Hughes was still training Mrs. Baxter on how to be a housekeeper. Mr. Carson was upstairs, serving the family tea. 

After all. It wasn’t like Miss Smith needed a damn interview, was it. 

There came a knocking at his door, and Thomas looked up to see a young woman in a navy peacoat and cloche with golden blonde hair in the doorway. 

Miss Smith. 

She looked a bit like Anna but there were some differences. She had a thinner nose and face, her lips pouty and her eyes hooded. She seemed… darker than Anna. Not meaner, just… less bubbly. Maybe she was the rational one of the two. 

“Mr. Barrow?” Catherine asked, perhaps unsure if she’d come to the right room. 

“Miss Smith,” Thomas sat back a bit in his chair, gesturing for her to take the visitor’s seat. “Please come in.” 

She did so, reaching out to shake his hand before sitting down. As usual, Thomas did not use his gloved hand. Even as he opened his mouth to speak, a soft rapping on the door stopped him- he glanced up to find both Anna and Bates. Anna was beaming at her sister, who looked around with a short sharp smile. It was sincere, but not as bubbly. Thomas’ assumption had been right. 

“Getting settled in?” Anna asked. Catherine gave a short nod. 

“Yes, I’ve just introduced myself to Mr. Barrow.” Catherine explained. 

“You needn’t worry, Miss Smith.” Thomas tried to keep the icy tone out of his voice, but it was incredibly difficult, “This isn’t an interview. Anna has seen to that.” 

Catherine looked back around, her eyes narrowing. Thomas ground his jaw, pulling out a blanket employee file from his cabinet so that he could start a new folder for Catherine. 

“I do, however, require some basic information.” Thomas admitted, “And I would like to see your references.” 

“I have them for you." She said, reaching into her purse to pull out two thick envelopes. Thomas took them both from her, opening them as Bates and Anna came to stand behind Catherine’s chair. 

“Isn’t this a bit unnecessary?” Bates grumbled. “She’s already got the job.” 

Thomas did not answer. He find he did not have it in him to argue with Bates these days.

Thomas read at leisure through both letters, eyes jumping to worrying phrases: 

_“Often involved with dangerous men.”_   
_“Has a history of inciting issues with male employees.”_   
_“Concerning fluctuations with abilities when involved with poor company; I would recommend any suitor she take on not be allowed near the house of employment-“_

“Nice.” Thomas sneered, putting the resume’s down. No wonder Anna hadn’t wanted Catherine to have an interview. She would have failed it on the second tier. 

He glanced at Catherine, finding her looking quite nervous as she glanced at the letters in Thomas’ hand. 

He wondered why. Did she not believe in her sister’s power of persuasion. 

“Fret not, Miss Smith.” Thomas rose up from his seat, taking the file folder and the letters to his cabinet which he unlocked and stowed away. “You’re not the only one in this house who has troubles with men.” 

Of course, how was Catherine to know that he was alluding to himself. He retook his seat, noting Bates was scowling at him. 

“Are you involved with someone as of this moment?” Thomas asked. Catherine went pale, a slight sweat starting at her temple. 

“That’s hardly any business of the house-“ Anna worried aloud. “Why should it matter?” 

“Typical of you to be nosy.” Bates added, irritably. 

“Oh do forgive me. Butler Bates likes to have the final say.” Thomas bit out. Catherine rubbed at her temple, clearly anxious. Bates scowled, looking away with an ugly harrumph. 

“… Your prior butler and housekeeper seemed quite concerned with your… what shall we call them… dalliances?” Thomas offered. “Why would that be?” 

Catherine ground her jaw, shrugging. “I’m unsure. They were very traditional, they didn’t approve of maids having romances.” 

“Mmm.” Thomas mused, stroking the inner leather cuff of his glove. “What is it? Jail? Abusive? A drunk? Why did they insist your skills fluctuated with your lover’s moods?” 

Catherine closed her eyes and looked away. “A bit of all.” She finally bit out, her tone taking the same edge as Thomas’. 

Thomas said nothing for a moment, rubbing his fingers a bit. So it seemed he’d been right to assume. 

“I see.” Thomas looked away. “Is he in jail currently-“ 

“What business is that of yours-?” Bates demanded. 

“Well if he’s going to kick down the door and try to break her nose, I’d say that’s a bit of my business, Mr. Bates!” Thomas snapped, glaring at the man. Bates’ nostrils flared angrily. 

“He’s in jail.” Catherine cut across before an argument could cut across. “He gets out next August, though.” 

“… I see.” Thomas mused, “Well hopefully when he does he won’t be able to retrace your steps to Downton.” 

“I thought I’d be safe here.” Catherine admitted, slightly guilty in tone. “It’s quiet. It’s rural.” 

“It is.” Thomas agreed, setting back a bit in his chair, “And you’re not the only one whose sought it out for safety.” 

Once again, he referred to himself but she needn’t know that. 

“… In this house, you will found there is a slightly lopsided tier of hierarchy.” Thomas explained, tilting his head to the side. “I am the butler, but I am still under the authority of the prior butler Mr. Carson…. this family is served by a similar below stairs, and Mr. Carson is the patriarch.” 

“And what are you, Mr. Barrow?” Catherine asked with no small amount of cheek. “The uncle?” 

“Hardly.” Thomas said. “But I am your employer, and mark me when I say that I will be watching your performance.” 

“Like a hawk.” Bates muttered nastily. 

“I don’t have the time nor the leisure to watch you like a hawk, Miss Smith.” Thomas snapped, “But I do tend to notice when things are… amiss.” 

“I will do my best, Mr. Barrow.” Was Catherine’s wise reply. 

“See that you do.” Thomas agreed, “Oh, and Miss Smith-?” he caught her attention as she rose out of her chair. “… If someone from your old position asks you where you work… Don’t tell the name of the house. ” He looked up. “Just in case.” 

Catherine nodded. “Joe won’t like me being gone.” 

“The world does not revolve around what Joe likes.” Thomas reminded her. 

Catherine suddenly looked quite jaded in that moment, her eyes flashing with an ugly memory of the past. “It doesn’t?” She wondered aloud. 

“In this house it revolves around Mr. Bates.” Thomas sneered. “So I assure you you’re quite safe.” 

Bates scoffed. Thomas talked over him. 

“Lady Grantham is upstairs waiting on you.” Thomas said, “First get settled in the women’s quarters… Anna can show you around. If you have any questions, feel free to let me know.” 

“… Mr. Barrow.” Catherine offered her hand again, and Thomas shook it once more. This time, he used his gloved hand. He noted Catherine’s fingers strayed upon the leather, slightly curious. She left, taking Anna with her. The pair of them bent their heads together talking. Bates, however, remained and glared at him from the other side of the desk. 

“Did you really have to do that?” Bates whispered, eager not to be overheard by his sister in law. “She’s already having a hard time as it is.” 

Thomas glared at him, “Four interviews.” He reminded Bates. “Four. She got by with a mere five minutes of questions. Which I’m sure she’s grateful for given how lewd her reference was.” 

Bates leaned in nastily. “I wonder how lewd yours would be?” He demanded, and then left without another word. 

“As if I’d get one.” Thomas muttered, chin in hand. 

 

After Thomas’ tiny questionnaire, Catherine introduced herself to the rest of the house and eventually to Carson himself. Given a small moment of reprieve, Thomas took a walk around the house with Tiaa perching behind the massive willow so that Tiaa could loll at his feet. She panted, her swollen belly heaving and falling as she took a rest from her jog. 

“…Typical.” Thomas whispered, sighing and closing his eyes. He leaned his head back against the willow thinking of Bates’ sneer and Catherine’s frown. Did he really need to make more enemies? No… but Thomas just couldn’t control his mouth. It was like a curse at this point. 

A crunch in the grass brought Thomas to a pause, he looked over his shoulder, and could not help but smile. 

Ever in the dark moment came the light. 

Tom was crossing the lawn, clearly making a bee line for Thomas. Thomas wondered if Tom had seen him from the library window, or maybe had coincidentally wanted to take a walk. It was difficult to say but either way here they both were alone on the lawn, hiding behind the willow tree. Tom came around the trunk, smiling as he leaned up against the bark and let Tiaa chew at his shoes. 

“Come here often?” Tom tried. 

“Only when the handsome boys are out.” Thomas teased. 

“Am I handsome?” Tom leaned in, using a gentle hand to carefully touch Thomas’ waist where his tails split and began to curve around his backside. 

“You’re something.” Thomas said, looking out across the lawn. He tried to stay in a good mood but it was rather impossible at this point. He just felt… bleak. Like nothing would ever change. 

“Bad day?” Tom asked, concerned. 

“Anna’s sister Catherine has arrived.” Thomas grumbled. “She got the job without an interview- without anything. And it drives me insane because I feel like that’s how the house is run. On favoritism.” 

“She didn’t have an interview?” Tom asked, “What about a reference letter?” 

“Oh she had one of those!” Thomas sneered, “Going on and on about how her poor relationships with brute men had led to fluctuations in her performance. Turns out her boyfriend is in jail. A drunk with a temper.” 

“That doesn’t sound good.” Tom murmured, stepping a little bit closer to speak into Thomas’ ear. He looked over his shoulder, then over Thomas’, and when he’d discovered the coast was clear he gently kissed Thomas on the cheek. 

“No more of those ugly thoughts.” Tom murmured endearingly. Thomas turned a bit, looking up to see there was just a bit of rose biting at Tom’s cheeks. 

He was flushed from the cold; he needed to wear a scarf when he went out. 

“We make the universe we live in by our decisions.” Tom said wisely. “Take a look at what I found in the paper-“ He fished about in his coat pocket to pull out a newspaper clipping. Thomas took it, to read: 

_“20 acres, Acacia Glen, Stokesley Road, Downton, York, YO62 5LP, North Yorkshire… For Sale- ￡350_

_Reception hall, breakfast kitchen, sitting room, bar, study, WC, master bedroom suite with dressing room and two bathrooms, four further bedrooms (3 en-suite), house bathroom. Stable block, cart shed. EPC rating E”_

“Tom..” Thomas murmured, shaking his head, “This is… This is a massive house. Twenty acres? A bar and a study-? It’s huge-“ 

“And?” Tom asked, “I can afford it if I save. We can farm the land, have sheep on it and chickens? Can’t you see us owning a farm? Wouldn’t it be nice?” 

“It would be sublime.” Thomas bleated, feeling depressed just knowing that it would probably never come to be. “But I just don’t see how it can be.” 

Tom held him tight by the waist. “It will be if we work for it.” 

“And until then? We live a world apart with a layer of concrete keeping us separate?” Thomas thought bitterly of the Carsons and the Bates…allowed to live and work together. How lucky they were. “I miss you when you work. I miss you when I sleep. I miss you all the time.” 

“Darlin’, I’ll come downstairs.” Tom urged, “I’ll come sit with you, every day and night!” 

“But… the others…” Thomas thought of how many people would talk. What they would be bound to say. Particularly the family would be displeased. 

“Let’s not worry about the others.” Tom said, “Stop worrying about what everyone else thinks all the time. Just… focus on us.” 

“Tom, attitudes like that are what get people arrested.” Thomas reminded him. At their feet Tiaa gave an enormous yawn, going to sleep. They’d have to carry her back to get her inside again. 

“I doubt a policemen is going to barge through the door.” Tom assured him, “He’d have to get past Mr. Carson first.” 

That would be the day, wouldn’t it. Thomas smiled, imagining Mr. Carson at the front door blocking Scotland Yard with his enormous belly. 

“ ‘An me.” Tom added sweetly in his ear. “I’ll never let a harm come to you, darlin’. You’re the only one for me.” 

Tom kissed him upon the cheek. Thomas froze, glancing left and right again.   
Tom looked over his shoulder one more time.   
They were too in the open. Too exposed. 

“…Come with me.” Tom murmured. “We can leave Tiaa here.” 

They walked together to the very edge of the Downton property, a place shrouded in wood and shrub not maintained by the grounds keeper. From here, deer could often be spotted in the early morning, but only when they finally stepped out of the gloom and onto the lawn. It was a place between worlds, where clipped grass met tangled brush. They were careful to step over hedges and roots, hiding past the trees so that they were all but swallowed up in the wood as the afternoon slowly began to turn to dusk. 

Tom pressed Thomas up against the largest tree in their immediate grasp, an aged oak with a broad base. Crushed between his lover and the tree, Thomas felt cocooned in all that was natural and right int he world. He chased Tom’s mouth eagerly, giving over at once to a sweet and willing kiss that left him breathless after such an awful and tense morning. Tom’s tongue massaged him, coaxed him into letting each and every wall he clutched slip. He wanted to do so much for this man, to praise and adore him. It often felt like he couldn’t do enough. That he was inadequate. 

But as Tom kissed and suckled at his neck, pulling gently upon his white tie to gain more leverage, Thomas considered the one thing he’d always been very… 

Very very good at. 

He slid down, momentarily confusing Tom who’d lost all purchase on his skin. Crouched at the base of the tree, his knees perched upon thick roots and his heels squashed against the swell of his arse, Thomas looked up at Tom and ever so carefully cupped the palm of his hand around the growing bulge in Tom’s trousers. 

Tom was flushed, eyes half closed as Thomas ever so gently massaged him. With each stroke of his thumb against the stiff fiber of his trousers, Thomas could feel Tom’s cock hardening. Filling with blood and heat. 

“…You don’t…” Tom mumbled, forehead pressed lazily into the truck of the oak “You don’t… have to… darlin’ ” 

But Thomas answered that question by slipping the tips of his fingers inside the crease of Tom’s trousers. He found the buttons easily, and undid them one at a time to carefully reveal his white pants beneath. The center fronts were slowly becoming see-through as precum wetted the fabric. Thomas’ mouth began to salivate, though he noted with glee that no marbles were bouncing about his skull declaring him a gunsel. 

Thomas gently took out Tom’s aching cock, and for a moment simply looked at it- marveled at how magnificent it was. 

He’d made a study of cocks in his life. The first time he’d ever taken a man into his mouth, he’d been fourteen and newly kicked out of his parent’s house. On the road to London, desperate to hitch a ride, he’d found a wagonette with several men who were on their way to Manchester. He had no money to pay them with, nothing to truly offer save for his wit (which was slowly running out with lack of food) and good looks (which likewise were diminishing as he needed a bath). The group had parted ways at a fork in the road, and Thomas had gone with the nicer of the four gentlemen who’d agreed to help him on his way to London. 

Of course, he’d also helped Thomas off the road and out of his clothes. Helped Thomas onto his knees and eventually his back to take his virginity upon a forest floor in the dead of night. It had frightened him then, he’d wanted to go home, to be in his bed. To be held by his mother though she hadn’t touched him in close to ten years by that time. He’d wanted many things but instead he’d gotten a little less: a man willing to fuck with him by the base of a tree and hold him as he cried afterward. 

He’d sucked many men off, it was easier than being involved in bed. One could do this mess and not have to worry about the inevitable collecting of clothes that staved off the escape. But as he squatted before Tom and looked upon the man he loved, it was somehow different. 

Less base. Less…ugly. Less low.   
Thomas didn’t feel like a whore when he made love to Tom.   
He felt…. special. 

Tom looked down at him, ever so gently threading his sweaty fingers through Thomas’ slicked hair. He would need to re-comb it before attending to the abbey again. 

Thomas rolled Tom’s fat cock in his hands, marveling at how it thickened with blood under his attention. Tom’s breath was coming out thready and quick, shallow as his heart raced faster. 

Thomas slowly opened his mouth, grinning a bit as a hot blush began to take over Tom’s handsome cheeks. Oh how cruel was he, to make the man wait. Thomas stuck his tongue out just a bit- merely enough to cover his teeth, and sweetly brought his head forward to place the tiniest lick right on the head of Tom’s cock where the foreskin contracted. A sliver of precum soiled the tip, turning the taste salty. Tom groaned loudly in his mouth, cheeks ballooning out as he threw his head back against the trunk of the oak behind them. 

“Fu-uuuck.” Tom moaned. 

Thomas took that for a sign of positive endorsement and carefully slid the glans inside his mouth, each inch hot and lovely in his mouth. It all but made his eyes roll back into his head. 

Thomas wasn’t about to pretend that semen tasted good, or that any type of body part locked in the sweaty confines of tight pants for 23.5 hours of the day was going to be pleasant to put in one’s mouth…. but goodness it was nice to suck Tom off. Weirdly enough, despite enjoying being in charge for most of the time, Thomas could not deny that he had a thing for being subservient when with another man. Maybe it was because his father had been a dick to him- maybe not. Who even cared. Thomas spread his legs a bit, earth parting beneath his knees as he took more of Tom into his mouth. More and more- till his nose touched the very tips of Tom’s brown pubic hair. The smell was musky- not entirely pleasant but satiable- 

“God you’re so beautiful.” Tom whispered, gently stroking at Thomas’ temples with his thumbs. Thomas grabbed on tight, anchoring himself to Tom by the hips so that his fingers could dig into the plump flesh of Tom’s arse. 

But even as Thomas sucked him again and again, tongue teasing the enlarged vein running along the bottom of his penis, Tom stroked at his cheeks with his knuckles to get Thomas’ attention, tapping him softly upon the nose. “Hey… C’mon.”

Thomas had no choice but to pause, the head of Tom’s cock still upon his tongue though nothing else. He kissed the head of Tom’s cock over and over, hardly listening as Tom talked: “I know you want to have fun too.” 

He had a point. Thomas was his hard, his own cock straining against the starched fabric of his pants. “Open your trousers, yeah? You have a good time… C’mon… Please?” 

No one had ever begged him to take his own share of pleasure before; like their own relied upon it. Slightly embarrassed, Thomas reached down and fished with his own buttons and pleats. It wasn’t too hard to pull out his own cock, to fist himself. 

He did so with speed, resuming his ministrations upon Tom till Thomas could hear Tom’s ragged breathing again. It was difficult to say what brought Tom more pleasure: Thomas sucking him off or Thomas fucking his own hand. 

“Sp-Spread your l-legs.” Tom stuttered. Thomas did so, fabric straining. “Wider.” 

Thomas had to stop sucking him off for the second time, but pumped him with his other hand as he mumbled into Tom’s sweaty hip bone: “Can’t. M’trousers-“ 

“Well take em off-“ Tom urged.   
But Thomas didn’t know how comfortable he felt bearing naked ass in the middle of the woods, so instead he just kept sucking Tom off hoping to distract him. 

“Here-“ Tom cupped Thomas’ jaw in his hand, sending an absolute shock of arousal through him. Tom pulled Thomas back, and urged him up to his feet. Thomas flushed, going willingly but unsure what Tom wanted. 

“Here-“ Tom said again. He reached beneath Thomas’ livery- pushing his waist coat and tails aside to find the latches of his suspenders. Tom unlatched them, freeing his trousers from the rest of his outfit. Thomas stood absolutely silent, still shaking from the pang of arousal that had shot through him when Tom had grabbed his jaw. He felt like a doll under a child’s fingers, in total synch with its master as Tom unbuttoned his trousers all the way and pushed them down with Thomas’ pants. They fell to Thomas’ knees; Thomas buried his face in Tom’s shoulder, horribly embarrassed to be semi-naked in public. 

Embarrassed and aroused— what on earth was wrong with him? 

“No one’s lookin-“ Tom promised him. “You’re alright- we’re alright.” 

These were pretty strong words coming from a man caught fucking Thomas like he was looking to win a prize not even two weeks ago. But Thomas would go with it just this once. At this point his cock was so hard he could have beaten a moose to death with it. 

Thomas shivered, his bum practically freezing in the open air. He brushed his nose next to the curl of Tom’s ear, whispering to him to keep from being overheard. 

Being overheard by who, he had to wonder. 

“…Will you-“ Thomas paused, licking his lips. He wondered how that action must sound in Tom’s ear- judging by the way he was gripping onto Thomas’ hip painfully tight it must have sounded good. Their cocks brushed together, growing sticky. “Will you… grab my jaw and really hold onto my tight? When I do it?” 

“Why?” Tom murmured, his own nose brushing against Thomas’ ear. They were mirroring each other. Thomas flushed, bowing his head a bit. 

“…Cause I like it when you tell me what to do.” He admitted, feeling rather perverted for even saying it out loud. 

But Tom was grinning, pulling back so that he could meet Thomas’ eyes or at least try to. Thomas was staring resolutely at the ground. Now, if ever, he was a gunsel. 

“…Look at me.” Tom commanded. Thomas glanced up at Tom and found him mischievous, flushed with lust and delight. In that moment, he looked more beautiful, more perfect that he ever had before. 

“…Get on your knees.” Tom said.   
He might have been grinning when he said it, but his tone was low and dark. Thomas could not help but shudder, doing as he was bade for the sake of hearing that voice again. 

Tom’s hands drifted from his shoulders to the top of his head; there they groped and grabbed at oily strands to anchor on tight. The grip was almost painful. Almost. Thomas glanced up and found Tom’s cock at eye level. He made to begin sucking him again, but Tom’s grip would not let his head bend forward. 

He was completely at Tom’s mercy, and it thrilled him. 

“… Touch yourself.” Tom whispered, voice turning ragged with lust. Thomas did as he was asked, one hand remaining on Tom’s hip so that his other hand could begin to touching himself again. 

He paused when he felt one of Tom’s hands clenching in his hair- he glanced up to find Tom grinning. 

“Both hands.” Tom whispered. “Legs wider. I want to see everything.” 

_Christ_. Thomas thought, what kind of monster had he made? 

He spread his knees wider, finally able to fully part his legs now that his trousers were no longer stopping him. They lay collected around his ankles at this point, his knees digging into the dirt as he pumped his hands harder and faster. He strained twice to take Tom’s cock into mouth- still Tom wouldn’t let him. 

“That’s it.” Tom huffed, barely able to speak any more from the erotica of the vision before him, “That’s absolutely perfect oh yes.” 

“Tom-“ Thomas whispered, “Please.” 

“Keep yer legs spread.” Tom warned, his hand slipping from Thomas’ hair to trail down his cheek to the tip of his chin. 

Thomas’ heart pounded in his ears, thrust onward by arousal of his own pleasure as Tom gripped his chin hard again. Thomas grunted unable to keep his euphoria to himself. 

When Tom’s cock finally filled his mouth again, Thomas was not in control of the movement or speed. 

But that just turned him on more. 

His heart pounded in his ears, slamming like the beat of a bass drum as he pumped his hand faster upon his cock. His fist was slick, his head warm and raw to the touch. Tom struggled to keep control of his movements, arousal taking over common sense so that suddenly Thomas was all but choking on Tom’s cock. It might have been irritating if it weren’t for the fact that Tom was holding tight to his chin, in full control, and Thomas had never been more turned on his life. 

He grunted softly, almost pressed to Tom’s legs as he sucked Tom’s cock and jerked himself off at the same time. It was impossible to do both tasks efficiently. It took too much concentration and Thomas wasn’t ambidextrous. Instead, he began to solely focus upon himself. 

This just turned Tom on more, if possible. 

“God I’m close.” Tom grunted, huffing and puffing as his hips ground between the trunk and Thomas’ mouth. Thomas knew he was close before Tom admitted it; he could taste it upon his tongue. The bitter swell of arousal stung his nose, made his eyes water. He took every drop and then some. 

“Fuck-!” Tom bit out, cursing in garbled Gaelic. _“Mo ghrá álainn!”_ The sound of Tom losing his mind caused Thomas to lose his control. He jerked once more, and came upon the damp floor of the wood. Upon Tom seeing Thomas come, he fell like a final log link into a raging river, coming hard into Thomas’ mouth. Thomas milked him, swallowing. The contractions urged even more from Tom, who all but cupped Thomas’ head to his belly, gasping his name like a prayer. 

When Thomas began to choke, Tom quickly let him go. He gasped, his throat raw and his lips swollen. He was wrecked, the minute he walked back into the house it would be obvious something perverted had gone down. Like always after sexual acts, a weird shame began to take Thomas over. The marbles, so recently shushed, were starting to come back. 

_Whore_ , they whispered menacingly. _You’re a filthy whore_. 

Thomas felt horribly exposed all of a sudden, and licked his swollen lips nervously to rise up and desperately struggle with his pants and trousers. He wanted to turn away from Tom- to hide- but Tom seemed to sense what was eating him and why. He pulled Thomas to his chest, bare bum now pressed against his still cooling cock. 

It didn’t feel erotic anymore. 

“Hey…” Tom whispered into his ear, arms strapped about his chest. Thomas shuddered, wishing he could pull away. It wasn’t right, to fuck out in the woods. This is what all those gun fire preachers were screaming about- that they were animals without decency. Now he and Tom were unintentionally proving them right. 

“Hey.” Tom murmured again, lips wetting the lobe of his ear, “Don’t you listen to those ugly voices. Not when you can listen to me instead.” 

“…And what would you say?” Thomas wondered, pants still around his thighs. “When we’re out here like animals in the woods—“ 

“I would say that we are takin’ refuge in what’s good and holy. Nature.” Tom murmured, and just for effort he laced his fingers in Thomas’ to place them both upon the trunk of the oak at Tom’s back. “Feel that tree? It’ll keep our love a secret… because it knows that we’re the victims here.” 

Thomas glanced around his shoulder, nose to nose with Tom. Were they victims? Thomas just didn’t know anymore. He couldn’t remember if they deserved this or not. Everything was so confusing now adays. 

“I love you.” Tom said, and the trembling in his voice left no room for lies. “I love you and I swear to you I will never let you get hurt.” 

Thomas closed his eyes, leaning his head back so that Tom could kiss him upon the lips.   
The tree kept that a secret too. 

~*~

Tom started to come downstairs after that. 

Just like before, when Tom had attempted to mingle during the families short trip to Duneagle, many of the servants were off put by the sight of him. The reason was completely different now. Before, it had been because of Sybil. Now, it was because of Thomas. Thomas tried to take it in his stride, doing his work and keeping order while Carson supervised and Tom sat at the servant’s table drinking cup after cup of tea. When the talk became too stagnant and the tension too thick, Tom withdrew to Thomas’ office to sit with him instead. They could never open with their love downstairs- there was too much of a risk of someone bursting through the door hysterical over a frock or a tray. Instead, Thomas had Mrs. Hughes old swivel chair brought into Mr. Carson’s office (a new one had been ordered for her office given that the old one had a precarious balance to its swivel); Tom and Thomas sat side by side, sometimes not staying more than three words to each other while the hour passed. Thomas worked on estate papers, Tom worked on shop papers, and that was that. Sometimes, Tom would carefully lay his free hand upon Thomas’ thigh under the desk. Other times, Thomas would stroke Tom’s knuckles as he read invoice after invoice. 

Sometimes they did talk, such as now. 

Thursday afternoon brought a slight lull to the servant’s hall. Katharine was out with Anna and Bates, the group of them walking about the village with little William in an attempt to get her better settled into Downton. Lady Mary and Mr. Talbot were with George, watching him go through the ropes on his horse Champion (apparently he’d learned his first trick: trotting). Lord and Lady Grantham had joined them, heavily impressed to see their only grandson take his first steps in the shoes of a gentleman. 

Tom and Thomas’ discussion had fallen upon family, and then upon pictures (given that Thomas’ desk was now barren of pictures save for the one of the children. He wanted one of Tom, and thus the conversation had begun. 

“I rather like my picture of you.” Tom joked. “I keep it beneath my pillow, you know.” 

“A fine place.” Thomas grumbled, scribbling down his signature upon an invoice ready for the mail, “I’m sure the maids will never find it there.” 

“It’s just Baxter and Anna that turn down the beds now.” 

“That’s not helping your case.” 

“I want a picture of you and Sybbie.” Tom declared. “And myself, of course.” 

“And where would you put that? In your sock drawer?” Thomas teased, setting down his pen to wipe his fingers with his handkerchief. His dark blue one was now used exclusively for his medicine, something Mrs. Hughes kept on her at all times (which made Thomas feel slightly like an invalid). 

“I’d put it on my desk! Same as you.” Tom said. 

“Not on your bedside table?” 

“no need.” Tom leaned back dangerously, his chair creaking as he reached out to drum his fingers upon Thomas’ thigh, “You’d be right there beside me in my bed.” 

“In a perfect world, maybe.” Thomas mused, for he doubted this would ever come to pass. 

“You can make the world perfect.” Tom said, “That farm will be ours, damnit.” 

“Does the word ‘no’ mean anything to you?” Thomas asked with a loving smile. 

“Not a damn thing.” 

Thomas leaned in, wanting to kiss Tom on the lips; Tom leaned in too, grinning-   
And then promptly fell out of his chair as Mr. Carson threw open the door in a fit. 

Thomas caught Tom hard by the arm, keeping him from falling ass first onto the floor (though just barely) and had Mr. Carson not been in a panicked state of mind he might have had the mental clarity to realize what it was that he’d nearly walked in on. As it stood, Mr. Carson was so flustered and out of sorts that he could only stand and gape before the man whom he’d come to look on like a son, desperate for an ally in the battle of morality. 

“Well!” Mr. Carson cried out, “You won’t believe what she’s done now! You just won’t!” 

“I’m sorry?” Thomas demanded, helping Tom back into his chair. The pair of them sat up straight, keen to know just who had gotten so far underneath Carson’s starched collar. 

“Daisy has… has…” Mr. Carson couldn’t seem to find the words, scarlet in the face. “Shed her decency for Andy! Mrs. Hughes caught them on the men’s side! The were… having their greens!” 

…What. 

“They…” What on earth had that meant, “They brought food upstairs?” 

“That is not what I meant!” Mr. Carson spat, flustered. 

“I know no other meaning for the word.” Thomas declared, and by god if he wasn’t telling the honest truth. 

“They were melling, by god!” Mr. Carson was close to howling in his societal rage. Thomas didn’t know the definition of ‘melling’ either, and stared without end at Mr. Carson who was slowly turning purple in the face. 

Tom took up his tea cup, carefully having a sip as if this was a curious Nickelodeon and not an honest to god melt down happening in current time. 

“Were….they…” Thomas had a sneaking suspicion he knew what Mr. Carson was referring too, but it sounded too brash and ridiculous even for Daisy, Having… relations-“

“Yes they bloody well were!” Thomas had never heard Mr. Carson let slip a profanity before, and it shocked him into temporary silence as he gaped from his chair. He looked at Tom, who was likewise disturbed. 

They both turned back to Mr. Carson. The first to speak was Tom, perhaps in an attempt to break the proverbial ice. “Has anyone used the word melling since 1480?” 

“You are the butler!” Mr. Carson bellowed, on the verge of having another heart attack if he didn’t slow it down. “Do something!” 

So maybe Tom was trying to warm up the atmosphere, but he’d be at it for another six months. Thomas knew something had to be done, his garbled brain trying to wrap itself around the fact that while he’d been down here having a cup of tea with Tom, Daisy and Andy had been upstairs in the men’s hall “having their greens”. In the middle of the day. Had they no common sense? Was this how Lady Mary had felt when she’d walked in on Thomas and Tom? 

Thomas rose from his chair, walking around the desk. Mr. Carson was fuming, staggering, clearly attempting to figure out whether he should follow Thomas or stay and blow a gasket in the privacy of the office. 

Tom tried to follow but Carson cut him off, thrusting an angry arm out so that they were suddenly divided. 

“Uh… wait here.” Thomas urged before Tom and Carson could start fighting. “Let me survey the situation. You keep the chair warm.” 

“As you wish.” Tom grumbled sitting back down in Thomas’ abandoned swivel chair. 

Thomas left, heading up the stairs quickly. He noted that despite being initially left behind, Mr. Carson abandoned the office to follow him up. Amazing that a man thirty years older than him could nearly walk twice as fast. 

They reach the top, and Thomas diverted right to walk through the dividing door. He found most doors closed save for Andy’s, which was wide open. Mrs. Hughes was standing in the threshold, looking absolutely scandalized, red faced and furious. 

Thomas walked over and looked in to find both Andy and Daisy sitting upon the two proffered beds. Daisy was wearing her gray frock but not her white apron, her hair tousled and her face stained with tears. She was distraught, sniveling, her hands covering her face in absolute shame. 

Andy was the exact opposite, clad in his trousers and undershirt but incredibly pale. It was like all the blood had drained out of his face, and not a single tear could be found upon his cheeks. On the floor between the two beds was evidence of their folly- shoes, socks, aprons, shirtsleeves… They’d been fools to act on their passions in the middle of the day with people in the house. What in the hell had they been thinking? Was something in the water and Thomas just didn’t know about it? 

Then again, who was he to judge when he’d slept with Tom upstairs. At least Daisy and Andy hadn’t been caught by a member of the family. 

Mr. Carson appeared over his shoulder, fuming at the pair. His breath was so heavy Thomas could feel it on the nape of his neck. 

“Well!” Mr. Carson spat, furious. “ Didn’t I say it was a bad idea for Daisy to read complicated books!? Didn’t I tell you this would happen?” He demanded of Mrs. Hughes, who pursed her lips and said nothing to her husbands wrath. 

“Now we have melling in the house!” Mr. Carson squalled, “Is this an abbey, or a brothel I wonder-? We’re filled to the brim with whores!” 

Daisy blubbered, beginning to cry with renewed vigor. 

“Mrs. Hughes, would take Mr. Carson downstairs and get him a cup of tea?” Thomas cut across before Mr. Carson could utter another damning word. He, like Thomas and Lady Mary, often lost his mouth with his temper. “He’s tuckered out.” 

“I am far from tuckered!” Mr. Carson howled, outraged that he should be cut from the game so early into the play. 

“Thank you, Mrs. Hughes.” Thomas said. 

Mrs. Hughes shook her head, her lips pursed into a thin white line. 

“… I expected so much better of you, Daisy Mason.” Mrs. Hughes sounded truly woeful, absolutely disappointed that such a good girl would turn so bad, “I cannot believe you would do this… after all the faith I put in you.” 

Daisy looked away. Thomas saw tears drip from her chin onto her lap, staining her gray dress with dark blots. 

Mrs. Hughes turned away, walking slowly up the hall with an exhaustion that more symbolized her age than her usual gay trot. Mr. Carson went with her, fuming and sputtering. Thomas could hear him cursing all the way till he reached the stairs and began to descend. 

Thomas stepped into Andy’s room and gently closed the door to garner them all some privacy. 

Thomas doubted it would be afforded to Andy or Daisy for a very long time. 

“…Well.” Thomas said to the stiff silence that greeted him. “I have… a few questions, as I’m sure we all do.” 

Andy looked down at his lap, eyes closed. 

“What the hell were you thinking?” Thomas demanded, unable to fathom what state of insanity Daisy and Andy were living in if they thought sleeping around during the middle of the day was acceptable. Even the upstairs lot couldn’t get away with it. 

“It just… It just happened.” Andy begged. 

“Clearly.” Thomas muttered, “What did you do?” he asked, “Or rather… What did Mrs. Hughes see?” 

“…Well…” Andy flustered, cheeks turning bright pink. Thomas waited for an answer but found none forthcoming. “I… It’s not for me to say in public-“ 

“What, afraid of being indecent?” Thomas scoffed. Andy flushed again. 

“I… we didn’t do… everything.” Andy flustered out. 

Thomas narrowed his eyes, looking from Daisy to Andy. 

“…Then what did you do?” He asked. 

“I…she… well…” Andy fumbled, unable to say anything.   
Oh honestly, what the hell— 

“You didn’t have sex, then?” Thomas demanded. “So what, did you get a Yorkshire hello?” 

Andy turned bright scarlet. Daisy burst into tears. 

Mystery solved, then. 

“Oh for god’s sake.” Thomas muttered, rubbing his brow angrily. He yanked out his silk handkerchief and handed it to Daisy. She didn’t seem to register it at first, howling into her hands. When she finally noticed the handkerchief she took it with clumsy hands and put it over her swollen eyes. 

“It just… it just happened so fast!” Andy protested, “Daisy came upstairs to help me get Miss Smith’s room ready, and we were going to swap out the mattresses in my room and hers because that one is better-“ He jerked his head to the mattress on which Daisy sat, “And… well… we sat down to take a breather and…” 

“And took a breather.” Thomas muttered. “In the middle of the day. In an occupied house behind a door without a lock.” 

Andy put his head in his hands, defeated. 

“I wasn’t thinking…” Andy admitted, dumbly. “We’ve been seeing each other for months now and… I just wasn’t thinking.” 

“Oh you were thinking, just not with your brain.” Thomas snapped. 

“Am I going to be given a reference?” Andy asked, bleakly. 

“I have no where to go.” Daisy wailed into her handkerchief, “I have no family- Mr. Mason won’t want anything to do with me now-“ 

“Oh shut up.” Thomas snapped, “The man would love you if you hit him over the head with a brick. And no one is getting fired!” He felt irate in that moment. What was their real crime besides being in love. Wasn’t their humiliation punishment enough? Dear god, Thomas had done worse and still kept his job. This wasn’t even a matter for the family. No… As far as Thomas was concerned both Daisy and Andy were safe, job wise. They just had to shape up their thinking. 

“Look, you’re two human beings and you’re in love.” Thomas protested. At his words, Daisy’s crying began to stem till she sniveled in near silence. “You’re prone to make mistakes, and gambles. This one didn’t pay off. But I think you damn well learned your lesson.” 

 

“Oh we did, Thomas.” Daisy whimpered into his handkerchief. “We surely did. I’ll never be able to look Mrs. Hughes in the face again, I’m disgraced!” She choked out. “Mrs. Patmore will never look at me again when she finds out-“ 

“Mrs. Patmore will only find out if Mrs. Hughes tells her… and I don’t think she will do that in front of other people, or at all.” Thomas said, considering the damage control he was going to have to do. He would have to talk to Mrs. Hughes and Mr. Carson in private. 

And offer Mr. Carson a very tall port. 

“I’ll handle the others.” Thomas assured her, “Just… for god’s sake, promise me you won’t do this again until you’re at Yew Tree Farm. At night! Away from my jurisdiction and other’s eyes so that I don’t have to ‘punish’ you!” 

Andy looked back up, his pale face slowly starting to regain some color. Admittedly, he was still sweating like one of Mr. Mason’s sows. 

“…Are you serious?” Andy whispered, barely able to believe it. “We… We won’t be fired for this?” 

“I think Mrs. Hughes seeing your todger is punishment enough.” Thomas groused. Andy flushed, rubbing at his face with the back of his hand to wipe off the sweat that had gathered upon his temples and forehead. 

Daisy could not even look at Andy. She was back to sniveling into Thomas’ handkerchief. 

“…Daisy.” Thomas murmured, heart bleating for her in that moment. He knew how she felt, to be the under dog…. to be thought of as a whore; to be called atrocious names by people she cared for. 

In an uncharacteristic move on his part, Thomas walked forward and gently took her face in his hands. Her cheeks and nose were wet, her eyes so puffy she looked like she had been punched. He forced her to look up at him, and smiled blearily down at her while she blinked away more hot tears. 

“… It’s okay. Really.” Thomas assured her softly. “As… as kind and understanding as you have been to me, to what I am-“ Thomas paused, pursing his lips. “I think I can be the same to you.” 

Daisy sniffed, and bowed her head. This time, her forehead rested against Thomas’ stomach, and she whimpered there, soiling the bottom cuff of his black vest. 

He didn’t care. He had a spare in the livery closet. Thomas rubbed her shoulders, hoping to instill some courage back into her. 

“Courage.” He whispered softly, “Courage, Daisy.” 

 

Andy looked away, still greatly ashamed. 

 

 

 

_“You what?!”_ Mr. Carson howled, his face purpled with rage. 

Back in his office, Thomas sat calmly behind his desk and carefully scripted out on Andy and Daisy’s personal files the day’s inconveniences. He’d given Daisy a good half hour to put herself together, urging her to redress and wash her face until she felt ready to face the world. As expected Mrs. Hughes had not told Mrs. Patmore about her unexpected run in with Daisy in the men’s hall, and had instead spent the time in Thomas’ office trying to talk Mr. Carson down out of a second heart attack while Tom kept Mrs. Patmore occupied in the kitchen making bawdy jokes. Andy was put on polishing duty for the night, forced to clean silver though technically it had already been done that morning. As the owner of a ‘todger’, Thomas knew how difficult it could be to keep a straight head when your dick was straining in your trousers. If he could, he would have taken Andy out to the lake on the far edge of the property and thrown him in the cold water. Given the time of year, though, the lad was bound to get pneumonia and no one would thank Thomas for that. 

Well, maybe Mr. Carson, but he was in an ungenerous mood. 

“The humiliation they suffered is punishment enough.” Thomas declared, “It is not a crime to be in love-“ 

“It is a crime to go for the greens when you’re under his lordship’s roof-!” Mr. Carson snapped. Mrs. Hughes rubbed at his arm, trying to calm him down. 

“Mr. Carson.” She whispered, “For heaven’s sake you’re going to give yourself an anxiety attack. Sit down.” 

But he couldn’t sit down. He was too busy pacing left and right, boring a hole through the stone floor beneath them as he glared at Thomas who calmly recapped his ink pen and stowed it away. 

“Mr. Carson…” Thomas tried to keep his tone as respectful and succinct as possible, “I have expressed my position that any… melling… they do, should be done at Yew Tree Farm away from his lordship’s property. I think that they should be left alone to decide their future! They are not children, if they want to make mistake and have sexual intercourse-“ Mrs. Hughes bristled visibly at the word, “Then that is their own agenda. Do you forget that Daisy is almost thirty? She wants to explore herself, to know her body- Mrs. Hughes please stop fidgeting!” Thomas could not continue on, Mrs. Hughes looked ready to collapse. 

“The way you’re going on I’ll be lucky not to have a heart attack myself.” She declared, rather breathless. Was there a blush forming in her cheeks? 

“You’re a woman yourself.” Thomas beseeched her, “Surely you understand- when you were Daisy’s age, didn’t you yearn to-“ 

“I didn’t yearn for anything, thank you very much!” She warned, tone rising up in defiance. Thomas pursed his lips shut, sensing he’d lost that particular battle. 

“I put you in charge to keep order!” Mr. Carson fumed, now furious at Thomas, “Not to let people slide around on their backside.” 

“Daisy is recovering upstairs, she’s putting herself together and will be more than ready to help with dinner tonight.” Thomas assured Mr. Carson, “Andy is in the servant’s hall polishing the silver. No one is sliding around on their backside.” 

But Mr. Carson wasn’t satisfied. He just kept pacing and fuming. 

“They should be given their notice.” Mr. Carson said, “And handed over to the police!” 

“Oh stop, arrest them officer…” Thomas put on a sarcastic tone, unable to help himself, “They were melling.” He rolled his eyes. 

“Cheek, Thomas.” Mrs. Hughes warned, a little more terse than before. Thomas sighed into his hand, exhausted. When he heard a knock on the door he was almost delighted for the break in the argument. “Yes?” He called out loudly. 

The door opened to reveal Tom, “I got kicked out of the kitchen again.” 

“Shocking.” Thomas declared. Tom shut the door and stepped around Mr. Carson who was huffing and puffing revving back up steam. Mr. Carson’s eyes blazed as he watched Tom come around the desk to stand behind Thomas. Thomas took great comfort in Tom’s presence, feeling steadier in his decision for mercy. Mrs. Hughes pursed her lips, well aware Mr. Carson was about to lose his temper. 

At least Tom would be here to back Thomas up, this time. 

“And another thing.” Mr. Carson hissed, furiously jabbing a finger in Tom’s direction, “He should not be down here! He is no longer the chauffeur! It is his place to be upstairs with the family!” 

“Tom has my permission to come and go as he needs.” Thomas said, reproachfully. “He’s doing nothing wrong. He’s having a cup of tea, a polite conversation-“ 

“Meanwhile above your head, two of your employees are… are…” Mr. Carson spluttered, unable to get out the final few words. 

“Well to be fair they weren’t having actual sex.” Thomas grumbled, “Just a Yorkshire hello-“ 

“Someone got a Yorkshire hello?” Tom was mystified. “Today? Upstairs?” 

“Let’s admit it, if we could all get away with it-“ Thomas tried to joke, but Mr. Carson refused to listen to another word of it. His temper popped, his mouth going off- 

“Don’t you get clever with me!” Mr. Carson spat, eyes blazing. Thomas fell silent at once, paling. “When it’s your kind that makes them loose! This is how society crumbles! You let it on of yours and one of their follows through! Everyone of them flocking to the devil’s throne!” 

Silence met Mr. Carson’s words. Next to her husband, Mrs. Hughes looked slightly ashamed, a few fingers tapping upon her lips as she bowed her head and stared at the floor. Mr. Carson heaved enormous breathes, sweating. He seemed to realize what he’d said, paling a bit as he smoothed back his hair and wiped a bit of sweat from his upper lip. 

Thomas felt Tom’s fingers curving over the back of his chair to clutch tightly at his shoulders. Thomas could feel in his grip that Tom was angry. 

“…Are you insistin’ we’re devil worshipers?” Tom asked, his tone alluding to a wild argument should he be met with a positive. 

“No.” Thomas assured Tom at once, “No, that’s not what he’s saying. He has every right to be angry-“ 

“But no right to compare us to devils.” Tom cut across. 

“It’s fine.” Thomas cut him off again; he could not bear an argument between Tom and Carson. Tom was the love of his life, the center of his earth and sanity. Mr. Carson was the father figure Thomas had so longed for and gone without. Mr. Carson’s newly found respect in him was so precious to him that he coveted it against to his chest even when it pricked him. Maybe it was the masochist in him but he could not find it within him to tell Mr. Carson off for being cruel. He would take the cruelty with the kindness if it meant being on better terms with the man. 

“… What would you like me to do, Mr. Carson?” Thomas asked, tentatively starting a new conversation in the awkward silence that now swallowed the room. “Fire Andy and Daisy?” He crossed his arms over his chest. “What would make you happy?” 

“A show of decency.” Mr. Carson declared. But this was too vague a concept. Thomas worked in facts. 

“That’s not a concrete answer.” Thomas warned. 

“I want stricter punishment.” Mr. Carson said. This was a little better, direction wise, but Thomas still wanted clearer instruction. 

“List concepts,” He offered. Mr. Carson mulled it over, calming considerably as he thought it through. Mrs. Hughes seemed to be breathing easier, no longer tense or nervous. Thomas felt very proud that he had successfully avoided an awful argument. 

Behind Tom clenched tight to his shoulders, his grip never slipping. Thomas was strengthened by his presence. 

“No half days for six months, for both of them.” Mr. Carson said, before cutting himself off, “No! A year for Andy, six months for Daisy.” 

No half days for a year? Thomas let out a shallow breath, wounded for Andy’s sake. That would be an awful punishment to be sure. 

“…Daisy’s birthday is coming up.” Thomas spoke up, for it was no small secret that Daisy’s birthday was February 25th. To imagine she might spend it working. 

“I couldn’t care less.” Mr. Carson snorted, but Thomas hadn’t expected him to care anyways so it hardly hurt to hear it out loud. 

“Mrs. Hughes,” Thomas spoke up, “Will you please fetch Andy and Daisy for us?” 

“Of course.” Mrs. Hughes said, and off she went slipping from Mr. Carson’s side to exit the office. Mr. Carson let out a huff, straightening the bottom edge of his vest where it had become wrinkled in his anger and smoothing his hair back again. Tom remained silent behind Thomas; Thomas looked around to find Tom’s expression stony. 

He was still angry. They would have to talk about this later. Thomas reached up, the tips of his own fingers touching Tom’s own. Mr. Carson was still occupied straightening his suit- Tom used the tiny moment of semi-privacy to clench tight to Thomas’ fingers. When the door opened again, Tom immediately let go so that they could be seen as ‘decent’. 

He still stayed behind Thomas, refusing to move. 

Andy entered first, looking hesitant as Mr. Carson began to glower at him. Daisy was behind him, pale and starting to shake. Mrs. Hughes shut the door again, and Daisy immediately made to stand behind Andy until Mrs. Hughes forced her to step around and behave appropriately. It would not do to hide from the future. One had to face it head on. 

“Mr. Carson has made it clear that he wishes, as Elder statesmen, for a greater lesson to be learned.” Thomas explained to both of them. 

“So we’re getting our packing notice.” Andy bit out, a rather healthy fear though it would go unfounded today. 

“No.” Thomas assured him. His was thinking fast. 

Twelve months was out of the question. Six was too harsh in his eyes as well. He needed a number between six and zero that was adequate for months without half days. Something to sooth Mr. Carson but keep Daisy and Andy from being thrown beneath the bus. Mr. Carson waited, eyes blazing. 

Thomas drummed his fingers upon the desk.   
And then, an idea came to him. 

 

“Starting in March, to keep it clean,” Thomas explained, “Neither of you will have half days for three months.” 

Mr. Carson spluttered, but Thomas raised a hand.   
If Mr. Carson wanted a showing of decency and humility, Thomas had one sure fire way of making it happen. Of course, he was a little rusty… he hadn’t been nasty since Gwen’s luncheon. 

Still, no time like the present to make do. 

“However.” Thomas said, tone darkening as he rose out of his chair and began to walk around the desk. 

He would use physical as well as mental intimidation. 

“Should I catch you again,” Thomas began, coming to stand directly before Andy who admittedly took a slight step back; Thomas was shorter than him but it didn’t matter. He was meaner. “And I will be watching your every move for a mistake- I will invoke such hell upon you that you will wish I’d fired you on this ghastly day.” 

Thomas’ tone turning menacing: “There will be no corner of this house without my claws wrapped around them, no nook and cranny small enough to squeeze in,” He began to walk around Andy till he was directly behind the man, reaching up to put his hand ever so carefully on Andy’s shoulder, “Satan himself will pity your position, and do you know why?” 

“N-no Mr. Barrow-“ Andy stuttered, still facing ahead. Next to him, Daisy’s eyes were wide, her skin bloodless from shock. 

“Because…” Thomas said icily, beginning to walk his fingers up Andy’s shoulder one digit at a time until he was almost touching his neck. He began to squeeze down, eyes flashing, “I’ll give you the toughest jobs I have and work you until you breath your very last…breath…” He squeezed again. 

Thomas felt Andy swallow beneath his fingers, and withdrew his hand to crack his knuckles menacingly. 

“…So keep it at Yew Tree Farm.” He murmured with a menacing smile, “Or you will rot in an early grave. Am I clear?” 

“…Yes Mr. Barrow.” Andy finally managed to get out. The lad was sweating. 

Thomas walked back around, retaking his seat behind his desk. He would have to make an amended statement on both their files to reflect the proper punishment… but that was no matter. A bit of ink, a bit of drying. 

Thomas laced his fingers atop the desk, relaxing in his chair. Andy and Daisy were still pale and sweating before him, waiting to see what else he would say. Behind them, Mr. Carson looked mildly impressed, if not sated entirely. 

“…Very good.” Thomas waved a hand to dismiss them both, “That will be all.” 

Andy and Daisy left, with Daisy closing the door meekly behind both of them. As far as he was concerned they knew his actual stance on this subject was quite liberal. He had to be conservative and harsh for Mr. Carson… but that was only for show. 

If they needed to seek a private audience with him, they had the option. At least this way all parties were happy. 

In the silence, Mr. Carson raised an eyebrow. Thomas wondered if it was in agreement or in irritation at the re-emergence of Thomas’ nasty side. 

“Are you pleased, Mr. Carson?” Thomas asked. 

Mr. Carson gave him a smug look. “That will be all, Mr. Barrow.” Mr. Carson agreed, and turned to leave. Mrs. Hughes went with him with a determined expression upon her face that clearly suggested she was about to chew her husband out the minute they were alone. 

“For now.” Tom added irritably from behind Thomas as soon as the door was close. He linked an arm around Thomas’ neck, holding him tight against his swivel chair which dipped underneath the weight. 

~*~

 

Watching Thomas be forced to be nasty had turn Tom’s stomach sour, and no mistake. The very next day he’d gone into the village to take a look at Acacia Glen in person, determined to make a move on the property before someone else did. ￡300 was a great deal of money but Tom knew that he could gain it back. His father had been a sheep breeder, after all, and farming suited him more than the white tie lifestyle that the family liked to live. He wanted to live more simply, more happily, and knew he could do neither while in the abbey. The sooner they left, the better. 

Acacia Glen was an encased farmhouse locked together in the middle of a six grid row with three fields to the front and three fields to the back. Her main gate stood in the center field of the front row, old rusted iron, and while it did not boast much of a lawn a great deal of sheep were flocking together on either side of the house. Tom wondered if he could find a way to help the owner part with a few of them to help he and Thomas start their herd. They were Oxford Downs, with black faces and short deep grunts that filled the air along with the smell of fresh grass and manure. Tom immediately put his name in the bidding pool, shaking the hand of the agent before heading back into the village to make a call to the College of Psychic Studies in South Kensington. 

As of the current moment, Tom sat in his desk chair, leaning hazardously back as he drummed his fingers upon his lap atop the cover of _“The Study of Spiritual Interference”_ by Dr. Anya Saachi. 

The man he was on the phone with had claimed to be a professor at the college, though Tom wasn’t too sure he believed him. He was much too proud, much too vain. Were all intellectual men this rude? Dr. Kinsey certainly hadn’t been. 

_“I have several concepts you can try.”_ The man urged, _“Are you a man of faith?”_

“Not particularly.” Tom admitted, for he’d found himself growing lax on his definition of God and Christianity in the past months. 

_“Is your friend, Mr. Barrow?”_

“No.” Tom was pretty certain Thomas hadn’t set foot in a church for faith since his childhood. 

_“I would recommend you reconsider your stance, and seek out an exorcism from a priest.”_ the professor gloated. 

“That would be impossible.” Tom admitted, for he was pretty certain every vicar in a ten mile radius could sense the “Sin” reeking off of Thomas and would want nothing to do with him, “I don’t believe a priest in our area would be comfortable.” 

_“I urge you to ask anyways, this is a matter of God, not man-“_

“What about the work of Dr. Anya Saachi?” Tom asked, glancing down at the book in his lap and its worn red leather cover. “I’ve been reading her book ‘The Study of Spiritual Interference’, I was wondering if I could speak to her. Does she work at the college as well.” 

_“Tch!”_ the professor was deeply irritated by this, which made Tom roll his eyes. Honestly, were they about to have a pissing contest over who was more ‘spiritual’, _“That woman is a fraud, passing herself off as a doctor! She is endorsed only by the godless of our society. Vagrants, sodomites, and gypsies. No, I urge you sir to cleanse your home of that rubbish at once-“_

At the term ‘sodomites’, Tom pulled the phone back from his ear and set it back upon the hook, In the silence that followed he rubbed his temples to stave off a growing headache and flip Dr. Saachi’s book back to the chapter of ouijas. 

Clearly he’d have to find her if he wanted to get to the bottom of this particular mystery.

 

He left the office shortly after that, briefcase swinging at his side as he walked back to the motorcar he’d parked near the city square. He felt slightly exhausted by the whole of it, considering how much they had going against them. Dr. Saachi seemed to be less pious than the nameless professor Tom had spoken with on the phone, and Tom wondered if Dr. Saachi had broke with the college because of its fraudulent nature. Of course, that wasn’t very fair of him to assume. He’d never even been to South Kensington or seen the school in person… but it just seemed like the whole lot of it was run by men who wanted to be magicians. Dr. Saachi on the other hand was trying to make a scientific study out of the paranormal and Tom could respect that. This was hardly a cut and dry subject, after all. 

 

“You!” A distant voice was shouting from back up the street the way Tom had come, “I suppose this all your doing!? You paddy bastard!” 

Tom stopped, toes digging into the concrete beneath him. He was going to throw a bet into the bidding pool and assume that ‘paddy bastard’ was probably directed at him. He was, after all, the only true Irishman in the village proper. Tom glanced over his shoulder, curious as to who would be picking a fight with him when the hour wasn’t even two, only to find with a scowl that it was none other than Larry Gray storming up the sidewalk. His normally combed hair was in a flopping mess upon his forehead. His pale cheeks were splotched with red. He’d either been fighting or shouting. 

Tom’s shoes scraped with pebbles underfoot as he slowly swiveled his stance so that he was facing back up the street glaring at Gray. 

“Come back for another fight?” Tom demanded, taking off his hat. The first insult to pass Gray’s lips, the briefcase and hat were getting tossed for a fist fight. 

“I’ve been written out of my father’s will!” Gray spat, “Which I suppose you knew!” 

“What a shocker!” Tom sneered, feeling rather triumphant for Lord Merton who’d always been stuck in a grizzly situation with Gray for as long as Tom could remember. Maybe now the poor man would finally get some peace, “He finally threw you off did he? Well god speed to you sir.” Tom turned away, walking onwards towards his motorcar. 

“Don’t think I don’t sense your hand in this!” Larry spat, storming up the sidewalk. It seemed the fight was going to follow him all the way to the park. 

“I have nothing to do with it!” Tom sneered, not even turning around. “You want a culprit, look at your own shoddy behavior! Live I’ve got time for your bullshit atop of my own!” 

“My behavior?!” Gray seemed flabbergasted by the idea that his behavior was anything but sublime, “My behavior is exemplary! I am a Lord! You are a grubby chauffeur sullying a bed that is not your own with a suicidal lavender!” 

Tom screeched to a halt, whirling around and dropping both handfuls to reach at once for Gray’s neck. But Gray saw it coming and took several steps backward to avoid Tom’s initial lunge. Tom’s fists floundered in the air, fingers curling as he drew his arm back to punch Gray in the nose-! 

“Come at me!” Gray snapped, bouncing back and forth like made to actually box Tom, “I took boxing at Eaton!” 

Tom would have laughed if the situation were any less angering.   
Boxing at Eaton? What a fucking joke. 

“I grew up in Ireland.” Tom sneered, which was far more a lesson in fighting than any gym class at a prop college could be, “You’re a chit as far as I’m concerned- and I won’t have you insult Thomas. Not now, not ever!” He seethed, “You’ll never be a tenth of the man he is-“ 

“I’m ten times the man he is!” Gray shouted, “And I’ll show you for taking what’s rightfully mine!” 

“You burned your own bridges!” Tom shouted back, well aware that they were attracting quite a lot of attention on the street. If they didn’t stop howling a bobby would come to tell them to break it up. “Now lay in your early grave! And don’t expect any mourners at your casket! I’m damn glad your father threw you off! Maybe now he’ll be able to get some peace at last. You’re a bastard, Larry Gray!” Tom declared courageously, “You’re a bastard and you deserve nothing but your own hate and malice!” 

Gray would hear no more, fuming and turning away to storm back up the street.   
“I’ll show you!” He shouted though Tom was far behind him now, “I’LL SHOW YOU!” 

“Show me indeed.” Tom scoffed, bending over to snatch up his briefcase and hat. He dusted a bit of dirt off the felt before jamming it back atop his head, “Why don’t you show me your Irish rose…English dog.” 

 

~*~

Dinner that night was relatively quiet, with only the intimate family present. Thomas acted as a bizarre switch between butler and footman while Andy served and Mr. Carson watched over the entire scene in his old livery. In truth, Mr. Carson could have easily just sat downstairs and lorded over the office (no doubt re-arranging the desk for the twentieth time) but instead he wanted to be present to oversee the passing of fish and vegetables. 

Honesty it was ridiculous. 

Tom seemed pre occupied, barely eating as he instead mused in silence and stared moodily at the flowering centerpiece in the middle of the table. Thomas watched him carefully, noting that Tom’s jaw seemed to be jumping. 

He was angry. He’d been in a good mood when he’d left the house that morning; had something happened while he was out at the village? 

“I heard you’ve put your money in the pool for Acacia Glen?” Lord Grantham spoke up, directing the conversation back to Tom who had, for the most part, been allowed to sit and fume in silence while Lady Mary spoke on a planned trip to London for an upcoming wedding. 

“How on earth did you hear about that?” Tom wondered, brow furrowed, “I only did it a few hours ago?” 

“I know the agent you’re looking to buy it from.” Lord Grantham explained after taking a long sip of wine. “Jones does dealings with most farms in our area.” 

“Acacia Glen… Lady Mary mused, eyes narrowing, “That tiny little far past Mr. Masons?” 

“Casey is selling.” Lord Grantham explained, “He wants larger land.” 

“I don’t blame him,” Lady Mary shrugged, far from concerned, “Twenty acres is hardly anything to boast. But why do you want it?” She asked tom. Tom bristled, the muscle in his jaw jumping again. 

“It has a nice view.” Was all Tom would say. It was hardly an explanation but Thomas knew the truth was flat out. The fact of the matter was, Tom wanted to buy it so that the pair of them could live a life together without being scrutinized for smiling or having emotion. The battle between the family was only a few days cold. Tom was wise to let it go without detail until everyone had relaxed and sobered up. Depending upon how the bidding went, if the farm became theirs, they could speak on it then. This time, Lady Mary would not be able to spoil their planned confession. Scandals in bedrooms were one thing, betting pools with respectable land agents were another. 

“Very nice, I’m sure…” Lady Grantham murmured into her artichoke hearts, glancing reproachfully at Tom who’d still refused to touch his main course. 

For a moment the silence carried on.   
“Tom, what’s bothering you?” Lord Grantham asked, “You’re acting quite stony.” 

Tom shrugged, shaking his head and taking a bite out of his salmon for show. 

“I ran into Larry Gray today while I was in the village.” Tom said, which explained everything. No wonder he was tense; Thomas frowned as he carefully poured more wine for Lord Grantham. Mr. Carson watched him with a scrutinizing eye, no doubt measuring how many centimeters top had left his pointer finger from the lip of the crystal decanter. “He’s just been cut out of Lord Merton’s will.” 

“What a jolly good time.” Lady Mary said dryly, “I’m sure he was in a cheery mood.” 

“He said ‘I suppose this is all your doing’ and started going on at the top of his voice up and down the main street about how I must have had a hand in it.” Tom scowled. This seemed to relieve his tension; he took another bite of fish, chewing bitterly. 

Oh yes, Tom had so had a hand in it… everyone knew that he and Lord Merton were in cahoots. Honestly. 

“Of course, he’d rather swallow Lye than admit he nailed his own coffin.” Lord Grantham grumbled, cutting into his fish. 

“Is it bad that I’m glad he got what he deserved?” Mr. Talbot spoke up. 

“Do you know-“ Tom turned to catch the man’s eye, “He threatened to box me? Said he’d gotten some training in Eaton.” 

“Oh that rubbish.” Lord Grantham chortled, “They do it to exercise the boys. It’s hardly true boxing.” 

“I’m afraid you already showed him what you were made of.” Lady Mary smirked, no doubt fondly recalling how Tom had punched Larry Gray flat in the nose. 

“I told him ‘You’ve burned your bridges, now lay in your grave’.” Tom declared with no small amount of pride. He took a large sip of wine, and Thomas walked around the table to carefully refill it. Tom turned his head just the tiniest bit in Thomas’ direction… nothing to write home about but a clear indication that he wanted Thomas to stay close. 

“I hope it doesn’t boil into anything more.” Lady Grantham worried, still looking slightly relieved that she would never have to have Larry Gray at her table again, “You may be right but Larry Gray has a horrible temper and he’s been known to bring spite to the table.” 

“Well if he does we’re ready.” Lady Mary refused to be moved from her tower of authority, “We Crawley’s stick together.” 

 

“…You be careful too.” Tom spoke up, his head still turned in Thomas direction.   
Thomas smiled a bit but said nothing to him, pulling away from the table to return to his position next to the serving station. Mr. Carson was glowering at him, daring that Tom had had the nerve to speak to him while at the table. 

 

He’d get over it. 

The main course came and went, followed by several more, and as they began to wrap up their meal with a final dish of Eton-mess, Thomas noted Andy walked with clear intention around the table, sweating a bit as he stopped at the serving station to deposit the now vacant desert tray. As the family gossiped, Andy leaned in to carefully whisper in Thomas’ ear so that no one else could hear. 

“Mr. Barrow, there’s a policeman at the door. He wants to speak to Lord Grantham.” Andy whispered. 

Thomas’ eyes narrowed; what on earth could it be this time? Surely nothing more to do with the Bates. That case was closed. 

“Tell them the family is dining and to call later-“ Thomas whispered back, barely tilting his head in Andy’s direction. Andy shook his head; clearly he’d already tried that avenue. 

“He says it’s urgent.” Andy admitted, “…It’s Sergeant Willas.” 

So this did have to do with the Bates. Thomas ground his jaw, heart thumping as he thought of William asleep in his cot upstairs. 

“Damn.” He cursed under his breath, mind spinning with possible scenarios. “Alright- go put him in the library.” 

Andy nodded and left the dining room, carefully closing the door behind him so that the family would not be disturbed. Mr. Carson watched Thomas quizzically from across the room, curious as to what was going on as Thomas slowly walked around the table to stand behind Lord Grantham’s chair. Lady Grantham was going on about the upcoming flower show in March- it would be the first of the season. 

He leaned in, turning his lips to Lord Grantham’s ear so that he could speak without the others overhearing. Thomas noted Tom was watching him like a hawk. 

“M’lord,” Thomas whispered, causing Lord Grantham to pause as he stirred a spoon in his Eton-mess. “Sergeant Willas is in the library. He wants to speak with you and won’t be put off.” 

Lord Grantham slowly looked up at Thomas, his eyes dark. The pair of them shared a knowing look, each probably thinking the same thing: “Offer him a cup of tea.” Lord Grantham muttered, “I’ll be there in a moment.” 

Thomas nodded, and as Andy stepped back into the dining hall looking quite tense Thomas caught him at the door. 

“Offer him a cup of tea.” Thomas whispered to the footman. Andy nodded and dipped back out at once. 

Thomas looked back to the dining hall and found Mr. Carson glaring at him. He wanted to know what was going on but could hardly ask aloud or it would disturb the order. 

Lady Mary looked around, following Mr. Carson’s line of sight to see Andy whipping out of the door for a second time. 

“What’s going on?” Lady Mary asked. “Is something wrong?” 

Thomas froze, halfway back to the serving station. He glanced up and caught Lord Grantham’s eye. He sighed, setting his napkin upon the table atop his untouched bowl of Eton-mess. 

“Sergeant Willas is here.” Lord Grantham admitted, “He’s in the library and apparently wants to speak to me.” 

“Why?” Lady Mary demanded at once, her tone turning sharp at the thought of Anna being in trouble, “If this has something to do with Anna, he’ll arrest me before he takes her again.” 

“I’m sure it’s not.” Lady Grantham assured her. “They’ve closed the case and arrested the right person. What more can he want?” 

“That’s what I want to know.” Lady Mary snapped, setting down her own napkin. 

“I better go see what he’s on about.” Lord Grantham rose out of his chair, and Mr. Carson immediately went around the table to pull back his seat. Thomas pulled back Lady Mary’s as she rose up too, and suddenly the entire table was getting up to see what was going on. 

“If it has anything to do with Bates, I want it over and done with.” Lord Grantham said, clearly sick of the subject, “Don’t let them know that Sergeant Willas is here, I don’t want to frighten Anna.” 

“She’s already been put through enough.” Lady Mary agreed. 

“Perhaps we should have an early end to dinner and take our coffee in the library?” Lady Grantham directed. Thomas bowed his head at once. 

“As you wish, M’lady.” 

The family exited one at a time, heading out of the dining hall and across the entrance hall to the far library. Dishes had to be cleared, trays picked up, and Thomas did it on double time with his brain whirling at the thought of William being torn from his parents for the cruelty of English law. 

No. No that could not happen. They needed to take precautions.   
Mrs. Baxter returned to the dining hall, and immediately began to collect trays from Thomas and Mr. Carson who was still grumbling at the lack of respect Sergeant Willas had shown to interrupt dinner. Now that she was head house keeper, she would be helping out much more in the dining hall after large meals. As they headed into the servant’s closet to put up the large of the warming trays, Thomas carefully shut the door on Mr. Carson gathering silverware and leaned in so that he could whisper to Baxter who paused, slightly surprised. 

“Sergeant Willas is here.” Thomas admitted. Baxter’s eyebrows shot up to her hairline. 

“What?” She demanded, “Why?” 

“I don’t know.” Thomas admitted, though he was certain it had to do with one of the Bates. Which one, that was real question though. “His lordship thinks it might have something to do with the Bates-“ 

“Oh god-“ Baxter groaned, amiss at the idea of their troubles starting all over again. 

“In the case that it is,” Thomas reached into his pocket to pull out the master key he kept at all times and passed it over to Baxter. To be fair she would soon have a key ring all her own but Mrs. Hughes had not relinquished it just yet, “I want you to take this key and go into my office. In my pen drawer, there is a leather box with spare keys to both motorcars. You’re looking for the one with the word ‘Ford’ engraved on it, am I clear?” Thomas asked. Baxter nodded, listening intently, “I want you to take Mr. Branson’s car, and get the Bates out of here. Get Catherine and William too- take all of them. Go right now, don’t waste another moment. I’ll send word by Andy if he’s come to arrest one of them-“ 

“Right.” Baxter nodded, abandoning the warming trays and running out of the room to flee down the servant’s passage, “Right!” 

Thomas closed the door after her, smoothing back his hair to rethink his position. Baxter would take both the Bates and William- they could flee as far as the gas tank would get them. Thomas only prayed it was somewhat full. 

As he left the dining hall to find it bare, he crossed into the entrance hall and ran smack into Andy coming up with an enormous tray laid out for coffee. Thomas took it from him, deciding that he would need Andy to be his spy in the event of a disaster. Thomas was almost certain he heard Baxter running through the gallery floor above his head, her heels clicking softly against the carpeted floor. 

“Andy, come here-“ Thomas pulled Andy aside- noting Mr. Carson was already in the living room no doubt attempting to keep some semblance of order while the maids cleared out the dirtied trays from the servant’s closet. Andy looked quite nervous, fretting as he constantly glanced over his shoulder. “If Sergeant Willas has come to take the Bates, Mrs. Baxter has my orders to use Mr. Branson’s car to help the Bates escape. I want you to assist them. Help them out of the house, help them get away unseen.” 

“Cor.” Andy whispered hoarsely, glancing at the library door across the hall, “Do you really think it’s gonna come to that?” 

“I can’t say.” Thomas admitted; both the Bates had been arrested before, both of them had a habit of running afoul of the law. If the Sergeant had come calling this late, that meant that it was serious. “Wait outside the library door. Listen in at the crack. If you hear him say he’s here to arrest either of them, you run to their aid. Am I understood?” 

“Yes, Mr. Barrow.” Andy agreed at once. 

And so the pair of them headed to the library, their plan set. Andy opened the door for Thomas so that he could slip inside with his hands full off the coffee tray. Thomas caught Andy’s eye as Andy closed the library door again. As the door latch clicked, Thomas noted the shadow at the bottom where Andy was standing did not shift. 

He just hoped this would garner the Bates enough time. 

The minute that he stepped into the dinner bearing the coffee tray, however, his ears were assaulted by a wild rave of shouting. 

“This is damn outrageous!” Tom was shouting, pacing back and forth with great stomping footfalls. Sergeant Willas stood at the end of the couch, open notepad in hand and looking slightly guilty while Lord and Lady Grantham took one couch with Lady Mary and Mr. Talbot at the other. Thomas set the coffee tray down upon the serving station; Mr. Carson was at its side, his face bloodless. 

“He’s a prick and he can’t stand being beaten at his own game!” Tom thundered, turning angrily on Sergeant Willas who raised his eyebrows but said nothing more, “All he wants is to cause misery to others!” 

“Be that as it may, Lord Gray’s accusations are very serious and I have to investigate them.” Sergeant Willas calmly interjected. With his back to the room, Thomas listened intently as he slowly poured coffee for Lord and Lady Grantham. Mr. Carson was trying to catch his eyes, but Thomas would not let him. 

So it seemed that Sergeant Willas was not here for the Bates. At least that was some small relief- but what had Larry Gray said to the police to make them target Tom? Surely Tom hadn’t actually fought him in the streets- that would be too brash. 

“Larry Gray has spoken out of haste.” Lord Grantham warned, “I assure you Mr. Branson has had no contact with Lord Merton on the subject of Larry Gray’s character. It more than speaks for itself.” 

Crossing the room, Thomas silently handed Lord Grantham his coffee before offering another one to Lady Grantham. They both accepted, sipping casually while Thomas went back to fetch Lady Mary and Mr. Talbot’s cup. 

“Well, that’s just it, M’lord.” Sergeant Willas explained, turning a page in his little notebook to take out his pen, “It wasn’t Mr. Branson’s character that Lord Gray was insinuating was foul. It was your butler, Mr. Barrow’s.” 

Thomas stopped dead in his tracks even as he handed Lady Mary her coffee cup. 

Lady Mary froze, her hand mid-way through the act of taking the coffee. They stared at one another, eyes wide. 

_Fuck_. Thomas thought in horror, _Fuck, fuck, buggering fuck!_

He slowly straightened up, carefully taking a few steps back so that he was no longer in the center of the living room and instead with his back to the serving station. 

“What did he say?!” Tom demanded, thunderous. His fists were balled, his face flushed. 

“I wouldn’t like to say in front of the ladies.” Sergeant Willas admitted, tilting his head to Lady Grantham and Lady Mary. 

“Please.” Lady Mary said snootily, slowly stirring sugar into her black tea, “It’s dinner and a show.” 

“I think we’re more than capable of handling whatever you have to say.” Lady Grantham added. Sergeant Willas shrugged, pursing his lips a bit before continuing on. 

“Well…” Sergeant Willas flipped a page back in his notebook to read prior scribblings, “Lord Gray seemed to think that Mr. Barrow was partaking in actions of an illegal nature.” 

“What kind of actions?” Lord Grantham asked at once, eyes narrowing. 

“Well-“ Sergeant Willas tipped his head to Lady Grantham again, “I apologize for the brusqueness of my words, M’lady.” 

“Please, go on.” Lady Grantham assured him for the second time. 

“Lord Gray seemed to insist that your butler was perhaps engaged in…” Sergeant Willas tried to find a word more appropriate than the would he would undoubtably have to use. Unfortunately none were forthcoming. “Sodomy.” 

Thomas kept his eyes steadily locked on the wall. Internally, he was screaming. 

The silence that followed was deafening. Thomas dared not look at anyone, certain that he was about to faint should he be kept standing any longer. For support and comfort, he grasped his fingers behind his back against the edge of the serving table. On its other side, Mr. Carson seemed to be taking much the same stance, just as pale as he. 

“…..Goodness.” Lady Mary finally spoke up, going for dry arrogance rather than panic. “Larry Gray’s imagination is rife with possibilities.” 

“What evidence does he have?” Lord Grantham demanded, rising up and setting down his coffee cup upon the side table so that both his hands were clear. 

Tom’s anger was slowly fleeing to be replaced by fear. He was being too obvious; he needed to reel his facial expressions back in or it would be the doom of them both. Sergeant Willas regarded his notepad once again. 

“He insisted that Mr. Branson defended Mr. Barrow’s honor today as he would a lover’s, and that there have been allegations in the past brought against Mr. Barrow— I looked into it and there actually have-“ Sergeant Willas turned another page in his notebook, “In fact, you were accused of assaulting a male member of staff back in 1919.” 

Sergeant Willas turned to Thomas. “Of course, that accusation was false, brought on out of drunkenness…but you see where I’m going here. It just looks a tad bit suspicious. I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you some questions, Mr. Barrow.” 

“That’s ridiculous-!” Tom flustered; Thomas turned away from the serving station, slowly reaching out for the kettle to fill up another coffee cup. It would not do to look panicked. It would not do to act abnormally. He had to remain calm. He had to act as unsuspicious as possible. 

“Please.” Thomas spoke up, amazed at how steady and calm his voice was, “I’ll answer them.” 

“But surely-“ Lady Grantham flustered, her lips pursing. She too had set down her coffee cup. 

“It won’t take more than a moment.” Sergeant Willas assured her, soothingly. “I won’t have him bothered for long.” 

“You’ll forgive me if I don’t continue to serve coffee while you do?” Thomas spoke up, glancing over his shoulder at Sergeant Willas. He tipped his head, pen poised over his notepad. 

“Certainly.” Sergeant Willas agreed. Thomas began to pour Mr. Talbot a cup of coffee. “If I may ask, how old are you, Mr. Barrow?” 

“I’m thirty five.” Thomas said. He walked calmly back across the room, slowly handing Mr. Talbot his teacup. Mr. Talbot took it at once, perhaps afraid that Thomas’ grip would shake upon the saucer and make the china rattle suspiciously. 

“Are you married?” 

“I am not.” 

“Do you have a mol?” 

“I do not.” 

“Have you ever had a mol?” He asked, and Thomas was slightly tempted to lie until he reasoned that any story he might come up with couldn’t be backed and was therefore useless to him. 

“Not by the 1925 definition, no.” Thomas returned to the serving station and poured a cup for Tom would would probably refuse- honestly he didn’t need any caffeine. His heart was probably pounding already at this point. “But I’m sure you’ll agree that there’s not much chance for men in service to have mols.” 

“Mr. Bates is married, so is Mr. Carson.” Sergeant Willas reminded him, “Why not you?” 

“…Right one never came along.” Thomas finally fished up the old line that had been flung at him by the butler of Eston Park last year. The excuse would do as much as any other. 

Sergeant Willas scratched a bit upon his notepad. 

He continued to write even as Thomas slowly handed Tom his coffee cup. Just as he’d predicted, Tom’s pulse was jumping in the vein upon his neck. He looked ready to faint. Thomas caught his eye, holding it calmly as he passed him the coffee cup. 

_Do not panic_. Thomas tried to warn him. _Do not panic, yet_. 

“Is that all, Sergeant?” Thomas asked as the silence continued to stretch. 

“Almost.” Sergeant Willas assured him, flipping another page in his notebook, “I apologize, I have poor handwriting. It’s difficult for me to write on these small pads. What is your relationship with Mr. Branson?” 

“Mr. Branson used to be chauffeur.” Thomas supplied, attempting to use as much truth as possible. “As members of the staff, we knew each other well. Our friendship is a secure one.” 

“And would you say that Mr. Branson is your best friend?” Sergeant Willas asked carefully, catching Thomas eye. 

There was no shame in having a best friend at all. None that the law could find, and so Thomas did not waver from the truth: “Yes”. 

“Lord Gray wants to hurt Mr. Branson.” Thomas continued on hesitantly, “He’s… very angry about his loss of inheritance. He thinks Mr. Branson had a hand in it, which of course he didn’t.” 

“Mm.” Sergeant Willas was still scribbling upon the pad. “I realize this was done out of spite, I’m not a fool.” 

Thomas carefully returned to his coffee tray, deciding he would pour Sergeant Willas a cup. Maybe if he could keep the man from writing anything else in his notebook the situation could be salvaged. “Nor would I insist you are one.” Thomas murmured softly. 

“So there won’t be any charges?” Lord Grantham asked hesitantly. 

“No.” Sergeant Willas said. Thomas let out an enormous breath, his back still to Sergeant Willas as he poured the coffee cup with more ease. 

Thank god. _Thank god_. 

“I’ll say I investigated and found no evidence. I don’t bother with this sort of dribble anyways.” Sergeant Willas continued on, “I have bigger fish to fry. If blood isn’t spilt, I’m not interested.” 

“Thank you so much for your understanding of Larry Gray’s temper.” Lady Grantham gushed, “I’m so sorry you’ve been bothered so late at night. 

“I would ask that for the time Mr. Branson stay away from Lord Gray.” Sergeant Willas warned, putting back up his notebook. 

“Of course.” Lord Grantham agreed at once, “Would you care for some coffee before you go, Sergeant?” 

“Well, if you wouldn’t mind.” Sergeant Willas said, quite chuffed, “I have a long shift tonight.” 

Thomas was more than happy to deliver, content knowing that neither he nor Tom would be arrested despite Lord Gray’s attempt. The next time he saw the man, he was going to shove him in front of a passing motorcar. Bringing the coffee cup over to Sergeant Willas, Thomas offered it to him and he accepted with a kind smile only to pause, eyes locked on Thomas’ wrists. 

“What’s that?” Sergeant Willas asked, pointing to the leather cuffs covering Thomas’ suicide scars. 

Thomas looked down at it and quickly hid the bandage beneath his opposite hand. He spun for a careful lie, knowing full well suicide was just as illegal as sodomy. “Oh, I pulled it. It’s a bandage.” 

“…You pulled it?” Sergeant Willas repeated, eyes narrowed. Thomas swallowed, attempting to strengthen the lie. 

“Yes.” Thomas said. “You know how it is-“ 

“…You pulled both your wrists?” Sergeant Willas asked, gesturing to the identical leather cuff on Thomas’ wrist, now visible as he held the opposite one in his other hand. 

Thomas froze, unsure of what to say. What lie could he tell now? A man with two sprained wrists could hardly carry a coffee tray. What could he possibly say? 

Sergeant Willas seemed to sense the fear in his eyes, and slowly set down his coffee cup. The horrible silence in the library just seemed to press on and on, with even Lord Grantham unable to come up with an adequate excuse. 

“Take off your cuffs.” Sergeant Willas demanded, his arms crossed over his chest. Thomas flinched. 

“Wh-what?” He gaped. He couldn’t take off the cuffs; to do so would be the end. But he couldn’t go against a-! 

“Take off your cuffs.” Sergeant Willas ordered again, this time with a harder tone. 

Thomas panicked, taking a step back. Sergeant Willas advanced on him at once, grabbing him by the elbow tightly as if thinking Thomas was about to run. Thomas felt his knees lock beneath him; it was a miracle he was still standing by this point. 

I am an English Sergeant, a lawman with jurisdiction over the county of Grantham!” Sergeant Willas warned him angrily, “And I am ordering you as such to take off your cuffs or be arrested for obstruction of an investigation.” 

“Sergeant-“ Lord Grantham protested, but Sergeant Willas threw up a spare hand to cut the man off. No excuse would help Thomas now. 

He’d been caught. 

Trembling, Thomas did as he was bid with great bitterness, heart swelling up with fear and anxiety till it felt like he couldn’t breath properly. His chest seemed to be ballooning, his neck turning to concrete. 

He felt as heavy as lead, pulling off both leather cuffs with shaking hands so that the pale skin stung in the cold air. 

“Show me your wrists.” Sergeant Willas demanded, still holding Thomas hard by the elbow. He couldn’t get away. He couldn’t deny a policeman. 

Knowing he was dooming himself, but unable to fight it, Thomas slowly showed his wrists to Sergeant Willas as the rest of the room held its breath in horrific anticipation. Thomas was certain he could hear Tom’s heart pounding from behind him. 

The scars were self evident. Thomas quickly jerked his elbow out of Sergeant Willas’ hold and hurriedly threw back on his leather cuffs. There would be no point now, of course, but he didn’t want anyone else to see. “There.” Thomas spat, “We’re all out in the open.” 

“Yes we are.” Sergeant Willas ground out, putting up both his notepad and pencil to fix his custodian helmet a little squarer upon his head. “You do realize that self-murder is a criminal offense punishable by jail time for up to six years?” He demanded. 

Six years? Six…Six…

“Yes.” Thomas stuttered, unable to even look at the man. He stared at a place near the foot of Lady Mary’s couch, for some reason focusing upon her shoe. A herman delman in make… dark brown leather with an ankle strap. 

“And do you realize that I have shown you great mercy tonight already by not arresting you on the spot for Sodomy? A crime punishable by ten years of hard labor in Gaol? On a good day?” Sergeant Willas added incredulously. 

“Yes.” 

A dark brown leather strap.   
Six years.   
Persian carpet.   
Heat from the fireplace. Thomas couldn’t think properly. Even the marbles were silenced. 

“Do you think I can feasibly let this go as well?” Sergeant Willas demanded angrily, gesturing to where Thomas’ hands dangled limply at his sides. 

Thomas looked up to observe the room. Lord and Lady Grantham looked sickened, neither of them able to stop what was happening before them. Mr. Talbot was frozen, eyes wide as he looked from Thomas to Sergeant Willas. He was trying to speak but failing. Lady Mary looked the most frightened of them all, her face bloodless and her jaw jumping as she rose from her place on the couch. Thomas could hear her scattered breathing, her panic. 

Thomas slowly looked to the right, catching Tom’s eye. 

Tom seemed to be in shock, completely expressionless as he gaped at Thomas. 

“Thomas-“ Tom whispered, the nightmare solidifying around them. 

“Well?” Sergeant Willas demanded, “Do you?” 

“…No.” Thomas whispered. 

There was a menacing metal clink upon the air. Thomas did not take his eyes off of Tom’s face, certain this was the last time they would see each other. 

“I take no pleasure in doing this-“ Sergeant Willas warned, undoing his handcuffs which he’d kept stowed upon his utility belt. 

“Oh, for god’s sake, man!” Lord Grantham bellowed, back off the couch. “Don’t do this! Think of mercy-!” 

 

Mercy.   
What was mercy? 

Thomas was captivated by Tom’s handsomeness, even in panic and fear. His beauty. He found himself totally absorbed in that man in that moment; in all that stood for. Light, goodness, strength, and courage. 

_“Courage,”_ Thomas had whispered to Daisy not even a day before, _“Courage, Daisy.”_

Courage.   
…Courage-

“I cannot let this go unchallenged!” Sergeant Willas thundered back, refusing to budge, “I’ve already gone out of my way tonight, if I do it twice I’ll be neglecting my duties as an officer of the law-“ 

“But you can’t be serious!” Lady Grantham rose off the couch, wringing her hands, “He’s committed no crime-!” 

“But he has, Lady Grantham.” Sergeant Willas warned, “and a very serious one at that. Self Murder is a catching phenomena; those that partake in it often hurt others around them. First himself, then another member of the staff- god forbid he could even hurt your grandchildren-“ 

“Tom-“ His name fell from Thomas’ lips unbidden. He knew what would come next, and ran from it in a blind panic to the only person he knew would protect him to the end. Even while Mr. Carson gaped and struggled with the law, Tom would be the one to set the curtains on fire. Tom’s anger would be his shield- 

Tom grabbed for him, and yanked him hard out of Sergeant Willas’ grasp before handcuffs could be snapped around his wrists. Despite Lord Grantham’s command that Thomas and Tom never show their emotion in public, Thomas could not help but hide terrified in Tom’s neck. The smell of his cologne, his pounding pulse beneath the skin- all of it protected Thomas. 

If he just closed his eyes.   
If he just pretend this wasn’t real-   
It was a dream. He was going to wake up. Any minute now he was going to wake up.   
This was just some awful awful dream- 

 

“There’s got to be some way you can overlook this-!” Lady Mary was still fighting the good fight, completely unwilling to accept that her corner had been shattered in defeat. 

“And the sodomy?” Sergeant Willas added irritably, “Absolutely not. It’s either one or the other, and mark me this Lady Mary, if he’s going for something, let it be for attempted self-murder. The social recovery will be far less severe than far sodomy, and the jail time will be easier to maneuver.” 

Jail time. _Jail-_

“I warn you!” Lady Mary cried out, “If you take him, you’ll hear from our lawyer!” 

“Mr. Barrow has every right to a lawyer,” Sergeant Willas said, “But he also has the right to remain silent-“ 

Thomas felt a hand upon his arm, cold and hard like the steel that would surely follow. Instead, Tom yanked Thomas even further away, hiding Thomas behind him so that suddenly Thomas was pressed to his back instead of his front. Tom’s fists were up! He was ready to punch-! 

“I won’t let you take him!” Tom declared. Mr. Talbot rose out of his chair at once, stepping around Lady Mary to intervene should there be a fight. 

“Tom-“ Mr. Tablot begged. Behind him, Thomas could see Sergeant Willas’ jaw locking in anger, and his masochism burst from him as he pushed himself away from Tom to defend him in this final moment. 

He knew he was going to jail. He knew this was the end. But Tom couldn’t go to jail, or Sybbie would lose the only parent she had. 

“Tom, don’t do this.” Thomas begged, though Tom still had his arms outstretched to block Sergeant Willas from attempting to take him into custody. Sergeant Willas began to slowly reach for his baton at his hip. 

“I don’t care if you beat me!” Tom spat, “I won’t let you take him. Now when he hasn’t done a damn thing wrong-“ 

“I’m warning you, Mr. Branson,” Sergeant Willas’ normally bubbly voice was like thunder in this moment, the mark of any true police officer, “Step aside now or I’ll arrest you as well for obstructing justice.” 

“Then do it!” Tom roared, spit flying from the corner of his mouth, “Arrest me if you have to but you’re not arresting him! You think you’re so saintly upholding the laws of your god but all you are is a little man with a pair of handcuffs! There’s no honor in what you do-!” 

“If you think I get something out of this, you’re wrong!” Sergeant Willas warned, “I dislike that I have to do this, but it is my job! Do you understand that? My job, as a police officer! To uphold the laws of England, including the laws of self-murder. Now step aside, for the last time-!” 

“For god’s sake man.” Lord Grantham protested again, determined to keep both Tom and Thomas out of jail if he could, “Show some compassion-!” 

“I already have.” Sergeant Willas said, rather coldly. Clearly he was growing greatly annoyed of his prior kindness being forgotten, “I won’t take him for sodomy, even though I know full what what he is. But I have to take him for the suicide attempt, and I’m sorry for it.” 

At this, in a striking move of humanitarianism, Sergeant Willas turned and spoke directly to Thomas as if he wasn’t a common criminal in the eyes of the law. As if, to the Sergeant, he was nothing more than a man caught in a barbed wire net. A man already defeated. 

“I ask for your understanding in this process.” Sergeant Willas said. 

“Thomas, don’t say a damn thing!” Tom warned, “You don’t have to listen to a single word he says!” 

Sergeant Willas and Thomas stared at one another, men on opposite sides of the fence. Whatever grace Willas was asking for, whatever reasoning, Thomas imagined he could understand. So old was he to this game of morals and piety that he knew Willas was grappling with his stance just as much as Thomas was grappling with his. Did Willas really want to do this? Probably not. Did he have to? …Yes. 

And so Thomas knew, with a horrific sinking feeling in his chest and heart, that the battle was lost and the jig was up. All the horror stories of his kind ended in this way. He could no more deny their logic than he could the deny the physical presence of the man before him. 

“…I understand. And I forgive you.” Thomas added. He felt it needed to be said. 

Sergeant Willas let go of the handle of the baton to take his handcuffs again. The heavy nickel swung with unnerving weight as he unlocked the hand bolts, reaching out to take Thomas by the wrist in a strong and authoritative grip. 

“Thomas Barrow you are under arrest for attempted self-murder,” Sergeant Willas began, but even as he attempted to say more, Tom lunged. 

Mr. Talbot shot forward like a javelin, grabbing Tom about the waist and neck to hold him back even as Sergeant Willas quickly reached for his baton and yanked it out to point it threateningly in Tom’s face. 

“No!” Thomas begged him, shouting as loud as he could to distract the officer, “No don’t hurt him, I beg of you, let him go!” 

“You stay back!” Sergeant Willas shouted at Tom, purple in the face, “Stay back or I’ll strike you down- do you hear me?!” 

“Andy!” Thomas shouted, knowing the footman was just behind the door, “Andy get in here now!” 

At once, Andy burst through the door, seeing the commotion unfold like a child witnessing a wildly violent puppet show. 

“Stop him!” Thomas shouted, desperate for Tom to be held back even as he writhed and struggled against Mr. Talbot purple in the face, “Hold Tom back now!” 

Andy did as he was bid, grabbing Tom about the chest and arms to subdue him. Sergeant Willas had clearly had just about enough of this nonsense, grabbing Thomas’ other wrist and pinning it behind the small of his back to lock him in handcuffs before Tom could interject again and jump him. 

“Tom, calm yourself!” Lord Grantham begged, “For god’s sake-!” 

Lady Mary looked ready to faint, her hands clapped tight over her mouth as if to keep from screaming. 

“Get your hands off of him!” Tom screamed at the top of his voice, “Let him go! DON’T FUCKIN’ TOUCH HIM!” 

“…It’s okay, Tom.” Thomas bleated out, sounding like a lamb for how weak and warbling his voice was “It’s okay-“ 

Thomas’ voice seemed to sooth Tom, seemed to bring him back to reality as he heaved one sagging breath after another. Carson was now involved in holding him back, the three men still struggling as a sweat dripped down Tom’s face and his hair flopped in front of his eyes. Thomas gritted his teeth as his skin pinched beneath the cold nickel of the shackles while Sergeant Willas tightened them. 

“Do you remember what I told you that night in the garage?” Thomas asked, for that had been the night when this had all begun. The night Thomas had tried to warn Tom of the inevitable end, “I told you this was how it might end, do you remember? I knew this might be the result. Remember, Tom. Men like us don’t have dalliances, and this is why.” 

Sergeant Willas grabbed him by the upper arm, pulling him back and away from the family one step at a time.

Knowing it was the end, knowing the time had come and that he would never see Tom again, Thomas did the only thing he knew to do… tell the truth: “I love you. Right to the very end.” 

And he knew this was the end. 

Sergeant Willas drug him from the library, back through the entrance hall and towards the main front doors. Thomas’ ears were filled with the ringing of Tom screaming at the top of his lungs. Thomas’ heart pounded in his ears, like it was trying to get every last beat out that it could before he was drug from the abbey one final time. His eyes glazed over, details he’d never noticed before suddenly hitting him full in the face: the amber glow of lights against antique portraits, a random scuff upon the floor, and then he was out the floor door and being forced down snowy steps onto the gravel front. A police car was waiting, the motor still running with another officer inside. As the second policeman leapt out to come around the back and unlock the carrying cell doors, the front door to the abbey was thrown open to reveal Lady Mary who came running outside despite not wearing a coat or proper shoes. Her slick heels clattered against the gravel as she ran around the back of the police carriage. 

“Please, for god’s sake!” Lady Mary begged, prostrating herself before Sergeant Willas as the second policeman unlocked the second set of doors and swung them open with a great iron groan, “You can’t do this! I’m begging you— he’s already suffered enough!” 

“I’m well aware. But he made a choice the day he decided to try and take his life. It has it’s consequences. Now it’s time to own up to that, suffering or no. It’s only right.” Sergeant Willas said; Thomas was taken from his grip by another policeman who forced him up the shallow stepping rail and into the cramped confines of the back cage. He was forced to squat, resting with his legs tucked underneath him to keep his head from touching the lowered roof. He felt like he was being sealed into his coffin as the policeman swung shut the inner door, officially locking him in an iron grid though there still remained one final door to close that would cut off all view of the outside. 

“How is any of this right?!” Lady Mary looked ready to tear her hair out in anger. 

“It’s the law, Lady Mary.” Was all Sergeant Willas could say, taking the final door in hand so that he could eventually close it. “The law can never be wrong.” 

“This is proof.” She spat, no longer caring if she sounded like a Lady or not, “This is proof that it can be-“ 

“Don’t let the children know-“ The words blurted from Thomas’ mouth, tears of shame welling in his eyes as he thought of George and Sybbie finding out his eventual demise, “Tell them anything but the truth, I’m begging you-!” 

Lady Mary took a quivering breath, gaping helpless as the outer door began to close. The sliver of light got thinner and thinner, until it fell completely dark inside the cage with a hard metal _clang_. Thomas’ breath was incredibly loud in his ears, the cold biting as his skin as metal surrounded him. He could hear Lady Mary’s muffled voices, the muted sounds of crunching as Sergeant Willas walked around the side of the car. The whole cage jolted a bit as the car door was closed again, and suddenly Thomas swayed as the engine beneath him roared to life and set the car off. 

Only then, completely alone in the back of the police car, did Thomas burst into devastated tears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please feel free to review with any comments/concerns you might have.


	20. The Monster Mansion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom catches a clue.   
> Thomas catches a mouse.   
> Neither of them catch a break

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel that I probably need to reiterate this, for the sake of everyone's sanity: there **will** be a happy ending. Repeat it three times and click your heels. You'll find the answer was inside of you all along. 
> 
> Just hold on through this chapter and the next one. Then the sun will shine again.

Once before, time had lost all meaning. He’d been in the dark then. He’d been in a void. 

Now, as with then, time was a lacking concept. He did not know what hour it was, only that stars were in the sky. He knew this because the windows in the holding cell were black between the iron bars that encaged them. 

It was bright, blindingly bright. A light was in his face, his hands cuffed to the table before him in an iron lock he could not break with a stick of dynamite. Before him sat Sergeant Willas, with his little notepad. There was a tiny brown coffee stain in the corner of his shirt cuff-

Coffee… Thomas had poured him that coffee.   
Thomas had once served coffee in a very beautiful house- 

“When did you attempt self-murder?” Sergeant Willas asked. 

His personal effects had been taken from him. His tux and his vest. His watch and handkerchief were gone. 

“July.” Thomas said, his voice incredibly hoarse. 

“Do you remember the day?” Sergeant Willas asked. In fact, he did. 

“July… 11th.” Thomas slurred, “It was a Tuesday. The sun was shining brightly.” 

“What weapon did you use against yourself?” Sergeant Willas asked, continuing to write. 

“…A shaving razor.” Thomas said. It had sat quiet and patient in his pocket, like a child. Like a piece of candy. 

“Did you strop it?” Sergeant Willas asked. 

“…Yes.” Thomas answered. He did not see why any of this would matter. A razor was a razor was a razor… was a… 

“Where did you commit the offense?” Sergeant Willas asked. 

“Upstairs.” Was all Thomas could say, “In the- in the men’s bathroom. I did it in the tub to keep from making a mess.” 

“Who found you?” Sergeant Willas asked, flipping a page in his notepad as he filled up all the lines. 

Thomas refused to give away his friends. His family, “I don’t know.” Though he did know. 

“Who knew of this event?” Sergeant Willas asked. Once again, Thomas would rather die than be a traitor. 

“Not many.” Was all he dared to say. 

“Did his lordship know?” Willas asked. Thomas said nothing. 

After a moment of silence, Willas asked again, “Did Mr. Carson know?”   
Once again, Thomas remained silent. 

“Why weren’t the police called? Why didn’t anyone take responsibility?” Sergeant Willas asked. Thomas said absolutely nothing, staring resolutely over Willas’ shoulder where iron bars encaged him like a tiger. Like a beast. In his mind, he could see Baxter laying up against him, singing him soft songs to lull him to sleep with her housecoat still on. He could see Mrs. Patmore offering him posh deserts and poultice wraps. 

“Right.” Sergeant Willas didn’t seem to expect any more answers from him, and flipped his notebook closed to shove it into his coat pocket. “We’ll process you for attempted self-murder tonight and move you to HMP Wakefield in York come morning. God help you.” 

 

~*~

The house lay quiet, without interference from beast or man. As if frightened by the atmosphere that now soaked the living room, Tiaa hid in her basket beneath her flannel blanket. Upon the couch sat a man as broken as the vase at his feet. A victim of circumstance, both vase and man had fallen to the violent throws of another, so that they now could no longer be of use or purpose. 

He’d fought hard, taking on three men in the attempt to make it to the front door. Mary had run ahead of him, her husband and her butler consumed with the fight of keeping Tom at bay while Thomas was loaded into the back of the police car. Even after the car had gone down the drive, even after all common sense could tell him that Thomas was gone, Tom could still not fighting. He’d only given out when a wave of nausea and dizziness had overtook him to bring him weak kneed to the ground. He’d then been drug by Carson and Andy to the library couch, deposited there next to the vase he’d broken when he’d attempted to break out of Henry’s hold the first time. 

He wasn’t allowed to leave now. Carson had locked the front door. 

“I’ve called Murray at home.” Robert murmured. His voice seemed to echo against the library vaults. “He’s aware of the case and will start first thing in the morning.” 

“So what happens now?” Mary asked. 

_Now we die._ Tom wanted to say. _Now we all die._

He had failed to protect his love twice, and now, he would die.   
He was certain of it. 

“Now we wait.” was Robert’s reply.

Upstairs, the clock Thomas had once wound with Jimmy under his tutelage stopped ticking. Its face was frozen at 10:09 p.m.

~*~

Thomas was numb, completely helpless as he was unchained from a table only to be chained to a bench in a long and cold cell full of hopeless vagrants and bitter drunks that gurgled in their sleep. The only keeper of time he possessed in those wee hours was the slow changing of the sky outside of his cell. The black receding to gray, no blue to be found on a day like today. All color had fled from the world. 

Sounds and smells were very foreign to him; like was merely watching a highly interactive nickelodeon instead of living a nightmare. He could hear bobbies laughing as they got on and off their shift, iron clanging against iron as cell doors opened and shut, the sound of an argument and scuffle two cells down, the weeping of someone up the hall. A woman begging for mercy. Birds… birds outside the cell warbling far off. 

The smell of piss, of cigarette smoke, of mold and rot.   
The smell of death. Of blood. 

And then, Thomas was being forced to his feet in a long line of men that were shuffled left and right on a long unending chain that clinked at their feet. Men that cursed the police officers, that argued at being manhandled. Men that wept and begged for a second chance. Thomas did neither, completely numb. As he walked through the back door of the police station, Thomas noted Sergeant Willas was holding the door open so that all the men could go through. Thomas caught his eye, remembering the man always as the one who had had to take him away from Downton. The man who had brought him so much misery and misfortune… and yet hadn’t wanted to do it. The unwilling messenger. 

“Don’t shoot the messenger”, someone had once said. 

And then were were several cars, some bound west, others bound east. Thomas was forced into a relatively compact car that had intense cavalry- full iron siding and doors like they expected to be carting Jack the Ripper around. Six policemen were in this car, all of them fully armed with their pistols gleaming upon their waists. Thomas was loaded into this car with two other men. One of them reeked of alcohol, the other of vehement hatred. The drunk man sneered at the bobbies only to be hit with a baton and forced into the back of the car so that he nearly toppled into Thomas. He stank of filth and Thomas looked away as the man’s head fell accidentally into his lap. They were chained together, the two of them on one side with the angry man on the other, and when the doors slammed again and the car started off absolute silence held sway over their car. 

For the moment. 

“….Don’t I know you…?” The drunk man slurred looking at Thomas, “Don’t you work in th’ big house? Was’ the likes of you doin’ here?” 

When Thomas said nothing, the drunk man rolled his eyes. Thomas noted there was blood underneath his fingernails; what had he done to warrant Wakefield? Had he killed someone? 

“Whatever…” the drunk man sneered, “Can’t run from the law forever-“ 

“Shut up.” Bit out the final man, his anger seeping through his voice. There was something about this man which frightened Thomas immensely and so, despite having said nothing so far, he remained absolutely silent and bowed his head so that the men could not see his face. He wondered if he would ever talk of happy things again. He wanted to think of colors, of robins nesting in trees, of labrador puppies and brown fedora hats. 

Anything but this. Anything but what consumed him. 

_We shall be your sanctuary_ , the marbles tempted him. _Come to us. Stay with us. Be our slave… and we will do anything you ask_. 

It was a very tempting offer. 

When the cart finally stopped, Thomas’ stomach was gnawing from hunger. He had not eaten last night, nor this morning; his last meal had been an afternoon tea with Tom. Simple things; a biscuit and a chamomile brew. Tom had kissed him and brushed a crumb to the corner of his mouth. There was a great gnawing of iron on iron outside of the car, and all three men inside winced as the doors were finally thrown open to reveal a garish stream of light. At first, Thomas was blinded and could not see what was outside. 

Then the glare cleared, and Thomas’ heart jumped wildly in his chest. 

He was facing a massive wall of brick in the shape of a ‘V’, windows cramped and secluded along the brown wall face. Dirty brown slush dominated the ground, bit only by wheels of police cars that had pulled in and out around the front opening of HMP Wakefield. Policemen stood in a line, waiting to take prisoners into their throng, each face stonier than the next. Thomas was all but wrenched from the car, shackles biting into his skin as the police officer on the other end flung him from the back of the loading car and onto the slush. It seeped through the pants of his livery, so that a dirty sort of cold overwhelmed him as he staggered back to his feet. The other two men were treated much the same; the drunk man fell flat on his face unable to stand up straight while still hung over. The silent man who’d said nothing took a bit more ‘coaxing’ than the other two. He was clearly a hard case, not that Thomas was surprised. He thrashed and lunged, seething and foaming as police officers surrounded him. 

“The bitch deserved it!” He howled, “The slut-!” but before he could get another word out an officer withdrew his baton to crack it hard across the struggling man’s face. Blood flew through the air and the man crumpled to the ground silent. 

Thomas watched with wide eyes as his blood stained the brown slush a bright crimson. 

 

He wasn’t given much time to think on whether the angry man was dead or not. Four police officers had targeted him, two taking him on either side as they drug him forcibly away from the drunk man (who was starting to act wildly while likewise forswearing his innocence). Up the steps of Wakefield he went, unable to get a proper view of the prison or what it looked like on the outside. He glanced once over his shoulder only to see the car that had taken him away pulling off. Beyond it lay a massive wall of brown, encaging the entire estate, with chicken wire wrapped in a gnarled spiraling loop constantly around the top. Two massive wooden doors, twice as big as the front doors of Downton Abbey, let the car out. Thomas noted six policemen guarded the front gate, three to each side so that they could open and shut the door without strain. 

Then Thomas entered the prison and was swallowed up in gloom. 

The first thing that hit him was the stench. God how could he ever describe the smell? It could only be described as neglect. As hellish and utter neglect. Iron bars surrounded everything; every door, every wall, and Thomas felt like he was being lead through a maze as he was drug left and right through long dank halls by his four officers. He wanted to speak, to cry, but he was too afraid. It was a good thing the men were dragging him, for had he been left to his own devices his legs would be unable to work. 

The five of them reached a door with a black label above the sill reading “Committal Procedures”; one police officer rapped upon the metal with his baton handle so that the door could be opened from the inside (Thomas noted it did not have a handle). On the inside It opened to reveal a rather wide and airy room, half which was constructed as a makeshift hospital ward with dividing curtains strung up on metal lines and policemen acting as impromptu doctors. Several men were already bring processed, forced to strip at gunpoint so that their possessions could be put into individual boxes. Clothes, effects, money, and so on were squared away before being placed on a rolling metal cart that was already stacked with boxes. Thomas looked over his shoulder again only to see several police officers dragging in his drunk and angry car mates. Both were bleeding from their mouths and noses. 

There was a police officer that seemed to be in charge of their group, pointing for officers to lead the drunk and angry man to dividers in order to be stripped and searched. Thomas, however, was given no such treatment. 

“Solitary.” The policer officer said, jerking his head to him, “Attempted self-murder.” 

Thomas felt the hand of a police officer clutch tighter against his arm, an almost bruising hold. Thomas noted the drunk man he’d come with looked up agog at him, clearly dazed from being hit several times over the head. 

“Wha-?” The man slurred, “You barmy-?” 

“Shut your feckin’ mouth!” A police officer shouted, making Thomas jump with the height of his voice. Without another word he shoved the drunk man to the wall, practically forcing him to take off his clothes so that buttons and fabric were ripped in his anger. 

Thomas was drug to the far corner of the room where a door waited for him. It was likewise guarded by several policemen, one of whom was holding an iron ring of keys. This door, like the other, had no handle and was instead opened merely by a key that could be jutted into the lock. When the door opened, Thomas found the room inside it was relatively small and long with a door on the other side. 

The four police officers walked him in to be added onto by two others. The door shut and closed with a loud iron slam; Thomas began to shake. 

He suddenly realized in a horrible rush of fear that these men could do anything they wanted to him. They could beat him, rape him, kill him- who would stop them? Who would know? 

Thomas backed up, eyes wild, or at least he tried to until an officer stopped him at his back and grabbed him by the upper arms. 

But the door opened again, and this time an actual god’s honest doctor walked through; thank heaven. So it seemed there were medical men on staff. 

This man was thin with a strange pot belly, his bulging stomach covered by a tight black vest. He carried a clip board with him, and wore wire rimmed spectacles; his forehead dripped with sweat despite it being freezing cold both within and outside the prison. His hair was brown but thinning, slicked down not by pomade but by sweat and parted hard to the side. 

“Barrow?” The doctor asked, glancing down at his clipboard for reconfirmation. 

Thomas could not speak, he was so afraid. Instead he just began to shake. A police officer behind him nudged him violently with the handle of his baton. 

“Talk, damnit!” The man snapped in a thick Scottish brogue. Thomas looked over his shoulder to find the man was massive with a large black handlebar mustache. “We haven’t got all day.” 

But Thomas couldn’t speak, so instead he merely nodded with jerky head movements. It was the best he could come up with. 

The doctor tucked the clipboard beneath his arm, gesturing aimlessly with a hand to say, “Take off your clothes.” 

The two guards still holding him let him go, and Thomas nearly fell to the floor. His knees locked, nearly knocking together, and he leaned dangerous till the Scottish guard behind him grabbed him threateningly by the arm. 

“Go on you heathen.” The guard said. “Get it over and done with.” 

_Do not think_ , the marbles whispered in his head, _Just do as you are told. They will leave you alone_. 

Desperate to remain whole and sane, Thomas slowly reached up with trembling hands to begin undoing his livery. He pulled out his bow tie, and unbuttoned his vest. Every time he shed an article, the Scottish guard jerked the garment from him to thrust it to another guard who began to search through it. Article after article was shed, until Thomas was suddenly in his pants with his arms clearly exposed in thick white gauze. 

“Oh for gods sake.” A guard grumbled, “The pants too.” 

_Do not think_. The marbles whispered, _Just do it_. 

Thomas closed his eyes, fingers trembling as he reached for the drawstrings of his pants. These men were not interested in him, they were ladies men. He tried to pretend he was taking off his clothes in a room full of women instead, anything to keep the wave of nausea inside of him down. As his pants were taken away from him, Thomas kept his eyes closed. The doctor was searching him, prodding fingers going from the pulse in his neck to his wrists could be shed of their leather holds. Thomas heard several of the guards hiss underneath their breath as his wrists were exposed to the cold air. 

Thomas wondered if he was shaking from fear or temperature. My god, it was freezing cold. 

“Here-“ The doctor grumbled, “hold him still, I want to take off the gauze on his arms.” 

He was grabbed from several angles. One guard took him by the waist, fat fingers like iron as they pinched into his plump skin. Several guards held him by the arms, wrists and elbows immobilized as the doctor began to cut at Thomas’ gauze with scissors. 

Thomas knew what he would find, and though it made no sense and threatened his safety he began to squirm. 

“No-“ He begged, “No, please just leave me be-“ 

The guard behind him wrapped an arm about his waist, now locking him tight into an embrace so that he was almost lifted clean off the floor. Despite how he struggled, he was not a match for the guards. Unlike the drunk and angry man, Thomas had not eaten in nearly twenty four hours now and was exhausted by famine. The gauze was peeled back one wrap at a time, and when his full arms were finally bared to show the garish scars still healing with black thread, a guard or two groaned in irritation. 

“Jesus Christ.” One of them bit out. “What were you going to do when you reached your shoulder, I wonder?” 

“Knock it off.” The doctor said, sliding his hands up and down Thomas’ arms to check underneath as well. “I’m going to need the vambraces. Someone get it for me-“ 

A guard broke off from the pack, knocking briskly upon the handle-less door to be let out. In his momentary leave, the doctor continued to search Thomas’ body for other marks of self harm and medical malady. 

“Just the arm marks.” The doctor finally said, “But these are fresh-“ He added, pointing to Thomas’ upper arms, “When did you do this?” 

Thomas shook his head, pinching his eyes shut again. 

“He’s a lunatic.” Another guard supplied, “He can’t understand you.” 

“He wore a livery.” The doctor snapped, “So he was someone’s servant. Lunatics aren’t in service.” 

“You sure about that?” Another guard said, causing two others to laugh, “I’d rather be insane than scrub out a Lord’s piss pot.” 

“Well thank god you’re a policeman.” The doctor replied; Thomas could sense a dry wit about the man; clearly he wasn’t a fan of the policemen. The guard returned, two large metal vambraces in hand. They were hinged, with three locks upon their underside. 

Thomas’ arms were put in the vambraces, hinges biting a bit at his flesh as the doctor took a small iron key from the guard to close each lock. Now Thomas was covered from wrist to elbow again, but this time in a sheet of metal. 

“Dress him.” The doctor commanded. “He’s no threat to himself now-“ 

Thomas was put into a pair of navy blue trousers and shirt. The iron wool scratched and bit as his skin, making him itch, but offered him absolutely no warmth. If anything the fabric seemed to invite the cold in like a footman holding open the door. 

“Keep him in isolation.” The doctor said, cleaning his glasses upon his vest from sweat which had dampened the top. He wiped his forehead with a handkerchief and placed his glasses back on. “Don’t let him interact with other prisoners. He can manipulate them into attempting self-murder, or he can spiral and attempt it again himself. Keep a guard at his door at all times for the first week or so- I don’t trust the look of him. Those upper marks were fresh; he’s still liable to try again.” 

Two guards took him, one to each arm. Thomas realized that he was not going to be given shoes, and wondered why. But before he could ask anyone, before he could ask anything, Thomas was drug from the receiving room to the far door opposite the one he’d entered. It was unlocked again by a guard with a key (it seemed no doors here had handles), and was slid open to reveal a snowy stone courtyard. It was round, marked by two openings to the west and east made of stone arches locked with large iron gates. Thomas was taken through the west one, a large arm of the prison stretching overhead of him so reveal another stone courtyard marked on the far side by sixteen iron doors set into the stone. Above the entire lot stretched a carved marble placard that was perhaps put there to daunt the men who entered beneath it: _“A Broken Spirit Eliminates Danger, a Broken Mind Creates It.”_

Oh goody. 

Thomas was taken to the door on the far left by the two guards, which was set at the bend in the wall where the outer prison hold met the arm of solitary confinement wing. They stopped before the door, slush biting at Thomas’ feet; the guard opened it with yet another key. 

Inside was a space surely no larger than a large walk in closet; my god Thomas was certain Lady Grantham had wardrobes bigger than this cell. The bare furnishing of the cell consisted of a bed inlaid into a stone foundation with a meagre pillow and blanket, along with a hole in the floor in the far corner. Above the bed, a window no bigger than a log of wood gave bare illumination to it all. 

Thomas was shoved inside, and fell over his own frozen feet so that he hit the grimy floor with a hard and wet smack. He scrounged to get back to his feet, looking over his shoulder to see the guards were closing the cell door. 

“W-wait! Where are you going?!” Thomas cried out, struggling back to his feet. He ran at the door but reached it just as it closed with a clang so that he smacked into it and bruised his temple. He scratched at the metal sheet with his fingers, searching for a groove, for a mark, for something. 

But nothing could be found. 

He staggered backward, gasping for breath. It suddenly felt like he couldn’t get enough oxygen into his lungs though they were burning from the cold air. He looked to the bed, set into stone; to the hole in the corner reeking of shit and filth, to the meagre high above marked by two fat iron bars that let into tiny vestiges of sunlight from the world beyond- 

Beyond- 

Thomas screamed, as loudly and wildly as he could. He leapt upon the inlaid bed, grabbing at the bars of the window, and thrashed against them, trying to pull them loose. 

He couldn’t. They were iron and set with concrete into stone. Not even if he had a hundred years could he break their holds. Still he thrashed, pulling desperately. 

He screamed again, reaching out a hand through the bars; he couldn’t the slots were too thin and the flesh of his arms too thick. 

He sank back down onto the bed, finding there was a thin mattress on it though it hardly counted for much. 

He pressed his back against the stone and stared wildly around, looking for a door, an opening, a crack- anything. 

But nothing was there.   
Nothing but gray concrete that would not budge and black iron that would not go away. 

 

Outside his cell, though Thomas did not know of it, the guard that barred his door kept silent watch while Thomas screamed himself hoarse. There was no way Thomas could know that the guard was a friend of the doctors; that the guard had intently put him into the lone cell with the a window in the attempt to give him some vestige of sanity in his prison. 

By the time that Thomas stopped screaming, it was afternoon and nearing the end of the guards shift. He prayed his lone good deed would go unacknowledged by his peers. 

~*~

Tom had sat in the library till he’d been forced to his feet- forced to bed- it had been past midnight at that point nearing two in the morning. 

He’d been taken upstairs by Andy, to his own bed, and allowed to collapse into his desk chair where he’d sat for the rest of the night unable to sleep. When a fresh snow began to fall, Tom thought of Thomas and wondered if he was cold. 

When he finally did fall asleep at his desk, Tom dreamed of Thomas locked in the jaws of a violent beast from the sea which drug him under dark churning waves. Thomas drowned in the beasts embrace while Tom could do nothing but watch, held back by his fellow ship mates as bubbles of air flew up from Thomas’ open mouth. 

When Tom woke again, he found the house absolutely silent. Tiaa was not barking, the children were not playing, the maids were not gossiping in the hall. 

He rose from his chair, unchanged from his clothes the night before, and staggered out into the hallway to see if Thomas was there. He was almost certain if he went downstairs, Thomas would be serving tea in the library. That was where Tom had last seen him; it only made sense that he would find Thomas there again. 

He tripped on the stairs, nearly falling to the carpeted floor. His feet did not seem to want to work. 

_Thomas is in the library_ , he assured himself. _Thomas is in the library_. 

As he reached the bottom of the stairs, he saw Andy at the green baize door whispering to someone on the other side. When he saw Tom, he looked agog at the man’s condition and stumbled inside to quickly shut the green baize door so that Tom was alone in the main hall. 

_Thomas is in the library_ , he thought again. So he went to the library to find him. 

When he opened the door to the library, he found several people inside. Carson was there at the serving station with a tea set by his side. Thomas must be downstairs fetching lemon or sugar or something. 

Robert was sitting on the couch next to Mary who looked distraught. She had a handkerchief in her lap, and was dabbing at the corners of her eyes. When she looked up and saw Tom, she gave a start. 

“Oh, Tom-“ She blubbered, “I’m so sorry, I have no right to cry in all of this do I.” She sniffed, dabbing at her eyes one last time to stow away her handkerchief. 

“Don’t be ridiculous. This is difficult for us all.” Robert assured her. “But I’ve just had a call from Murray; he’s heading to York right now to get started.” 

“…What?” Tom asked, groggy. Murray? The lawyer? Why on earth did they need a lawyer? 

Carson was watching him carefully. He looked ancient in that moment, exhausted too. He wore the same dismal expression of defeat as he did when Sybil had-

When Sybil…had… 

“The case.” Robert repeated, speaking softly as if he thought Tom was slow, “Murray’s taken it on. He wants to get more information.” 

“But even if he does, what chance do we have?” Mary wondered aloud. “Now we’ll all be questioned for keeping silent-“ 

“No, Murray told me that Thomas kept his silence during his initial questioning.” Robert corrected her. “The police have no lead to prosecute the family on. As far as they know, Thomas was found by a fellow servant and nothing more-“ 

“But surely they can’t believe that-“ Mary said dismally. “They’ll know we were in on it- and then we’ll all go to jail.” 

“Mary.” Robert said, his warning tone ending that downward spiral. 

“…Jail?” Tom repeated the word bleakly. Who was going to jail? Where was Thomas with the lemon and sugar? 

“Tom-“ Robert was clearly concerned, rising up to offer, Tom his spot on the couch, “Perhaps you should sit down. You’re unshaven and wearing last night’s clothes, so I’m going to assume you didn’t sleep much-“ 

“How could he?” Mary dabbed at her eyes again, “How could anyone with a heart-“ 

“Where’s Thomas?” Tom demanded, words tripping over a thick tongue. “Where is he?” 

He needed to know what exact room of the house Thomas was in. It was imperative he knew. He needed to see him at once. 

Robert just stared, slightly confused. “He’s in prison.” Robert said. “He was moved to York this morning-“ 

Prison? Thomas was in prison? Thomas wasn’t in prison, Thomas was fetching lemon and sugar- he was in the house. He was fine. Robert was confused. Tom shook his head. 

“No, that’s not right.” Tom stuttered, “He’s not in prison he’s here.” 

Mary blinked, taken aback. She looked up to her father for an answer. 

“Tom, sit down.” Robert urged. 

“No.” Tom repeated, growing angry. “No, you take it back he’s not in prison. You tell me where he is. You’re the Lord of this house, you know where he is.” 

When Robert did not answer him, Tom began to shout: “Where is he?! Tell me where he is!” 

Robert did not answer him. Tom turned to Carson, “Fetch him. For god’s sake fetch him.” 

“I cannot.” Was all Carson could think to say. 

But Thomas was a good and prompt servant. If a member of the family needed him then he would come and quickly. He would not be caught dead slacking by Carson; he feared the man too much. 

So if Carson could not fetch him, then that meant Thomas was not in the house.   
And if Thomas was not in the house, then Tom could not reach him. 

Tom crumpled, his knees zinging in pain as he hit the soft carpet and wood beneath. He grabbed at the rug with numb fingers, breath scraping in his chest. He wanted to weep but lacked the energy. Wanted to scream but seemed to have forgotten how. 

“No-“ Tom blubbered, “No, no, no-“   
Carson abandoned his serving station, coming to stand behind Tom to try and haul him back to his feet. Tom clutched at the man’s vest- at his rotund belly- at anything stable and physical to support him in his spiraling madness. Thomas’ marbles were beginning to roll in his head- 

_You abandoned me_ , Thomas whimpered in his head, _You left me. You let them take me. How could you, Tom? How could you?_

“No!” Tom protested again, grabbing tightly to Carson’s lapels, “No, please, call him. Call him he’s just- he’s just downstairs-!” 

“Mr. Branson-“ Mr. Carson warned, taking him by the upper arms, “Come to your senses.” 

“Call him!” Tom shouted, “Call him, he’ll come for you! He’s scared of you! You terrify him!” 

Carson went white at that, staring at Robert unsure of what to say. 

“You scare him.” Tom blubbered, “So call him and make him come back-“   
But Carson would not call for Thomas, and his silence hollowed the room. 

“Take him to bed.” Robert urged. “He’s in no fit state to be walking around.” 

“M’lord-“ Carson steered Tom away by his arm, forcing him to stumble until he was walking straight again and could leave the library. Back up the stairs they went, energy fleeing Tom with each step he took until he was back on the gallery floor and outside his room. Carson opened the door wide and forced Tom to sit down on the bed. 

“Call him-“ Tom whispered again. “You can bring him back, I know you can-“ 

“Mr. Branson, you’re unaware of yourself.” Was all Mr. Carson could think to say. You need to rest-“ 

But even as Tom was forced to lay back on his bed, even as Mr. Carson removed his shoes and outer jacket, Tom still kept whispering. 

“Call him.” Tom mumbled into his pillow. He shivered, suddenly feeling incredibly cold. He was undressed now, bare skin freezing as Carson re lit the fire in his hearth and made to fetch him some sleeping clothes. He pulled back the covers on Tom’s bed, urging him to get underneath. 

“Call him.” Tom said again, feeling dismally sleepy. Carson did not answer; it seemed he’d given up on having decent conversation with Tom. 

“Call…” Tom mumbled into his pillow again, head tossing as Carson folded his soiled trousers and vest over his arms. Clearly they were going downstairs to the wash. “Call…” 

But he could say no more. Mr. Carson shut the door. 

~*~

Cold. Biting cold. 

Outside and inside Thomas’ cell, the blackness was complete. 

He lay upon his bed, eyes open even when he tried to sleep, breathing slowly. He felt so incredibly lethargic- he’d lost feeling in the tips of his toes. He’d curled his knees up to his chest but it had done no good. His toes were like ice even underneath his thin blanket. 

_“Thomas…”_ a breathy voice whispered in his ear.   
Thomas was so sluggish from cold he could barely recognize that there was an arm about his chest. This was impossible, he was pressed to stone wall, but still someone was behind him and holding him tight. 

_“Thomas…”_ Edwards voice resounded again, this time coming on stronger. 

“Ed…ward…” Thomas stuttered through numb lips. His throat burned from lack of clean water. “Help…me…” 

_“Don’t be afraid-“_ Thomas slowly looked of his shoulder, head twitching and shaking upon his thin pillow from lack of strength. Edward was right behind him, holding him tight. His blind eyes peered up at Thomas, lips near Thomas’ ear. _“Everything is going to be alright.”_ Edward assured him, kissing him softly. Thomas could not feel the kisses; he was too cold. 

“Water…” Thomas mumbled, “I need… water…” 

_“The wall.”_ Edward replied, looking over his own shoulder at the wall next to which they rested. Thomas’ ears, which had somehow been muted, now seemed to work again as he heard the very soft puttering of rain. _“Lick the wall.”_

There was water trickling down upon the wall from where rain was washing in at the window’s ledge. 

Thomas leaned, using what strength he could muster to touch his nose to the freezing concrete. 

He lapped at the thin trail of water, Edward’s arms around him. Ghostly fingers upon his pale skin. 

The water lulled him, soothed his throat. He fell asleep with his tongue touching the concrete, water dribbling into his mouth. 

~*~

When Mr. Carson had come downstairs to tell the others that Thomas had been arrested, no one had really known what to think of it. There was a sense of doom about them as they sat clustered at the servant’s table. Past ten at night with the family attempting to rest above them, the servants found no vestige of sleep while Mrs. Hughes wept down the hall. The sound of her tears had a frightening quality to them, scraping out the inside of the servant’s quarters, like the pulp of a fruit being removed till nothing was left but the edible if not tasteless skin. The very life and soul was removed from Downton with Mrs. Hughes in mourning. 

Catherine was new to this conundrum, and had been taken completely unawares when she’d learned the news. Her first impression of Barrow had been that he was severe if not obliging. She’d heard that, when pressed, he could be villainous. It was easy to see where such rumors might have sprouted with his biting tone of voice and gleaming eyes. Neither of these images matched up with a man who might slit his wrists. 

“It’s just… shocking.” Catherine admitted to her sister who sat silent in the chair next to her with William upon her chest. She rocked him back and forth, stroking his blonde curls; he lay asleep, completely unaware of the world around him. “The fact that he actually cut his wrists?” She glanced at Anna, “I can’t believe it. I mean, I knew he was a little dark. But…” She shook her head, “I can’t get a word out of her ladyship. They all seem to be on his side, which I don’t understand.” 

Silence met her words. 

Across the table, Baxter kept her head down, her hands clasped upon the table in Moseley’s who’d come up from the village at Anna’s insistence. At first, when she’d learned the news she’d wept inconsolably. Then she had fallen silent, and refused to eat dinner. 

Anna had called Mr. Moseley after that, so now here he was. Of them all, Baxter and Mrs. Hughes were the most aggrieved. The third had to be Daisy, who likewise sat at the table with Andrew by her side. Technically they were not supposed to be talking or touching one another, as Mr. Carson had ordered. In light of the shocking events, however, decorum seemed to have lost its foothold. 

Mr. Bates was likewise quiet, but that was as per usual.   
It wasn’t like he’d ever been friends with Thomas. 

“…He protected you, you know.” Baxter spoke up, her voice thick as if she was suffering from an obnoxious head cold. Her blistered and bleary eyes sought Mr. Bates who had so far stayed quiet on Anna’s other side, turning Williams’ silver rattle over and over in his hands. 

Bates glanced at her and set the rattle down upon the table, his arms over his chest. 

“What do you mean?” Anna asked. 

“…He thought the police were here for you.” Baxter sniffed, clearing her throat before she attempted to speak again, “He gave me a key to his office and told me to get Mr. Branson’s car warmed up. So that you could escape if the police tried to take either of you.” 

Andy cleared his throat, on Mr. Moseley’s other side. 

“It’s true.” He added softly at Anna’s looks of disbelief, “He told me to keep a look out at the library door. Said if I heard anything suspicious to run and get you first thing.” 

Catherine glanced at her older sister, who remained unnervingly quiet as she continued to stroke William’s head. It was difficult to say whether she was grateful or unnerved that Thomas Barrow would ever attempt to do her a favor. 

“I thought he didn’t like you.” Catherine said to Bates. Bates turned William’s rattle over a few more times so that the beads scraped against the inside of the silver shell. 

“… It’s complicated.” was all Bates deigned to say. 

“What’s going on?” Catherine complained, feeling incredibly out of the loop, “Please, someone tell me.” 

Bates straightened up a bit in his chair; William shuffled a bit in his sleep, making soft gurgling noises against Anna’s breast. 

“Have you ever known men of a funny sort?” Bates asked Catherine. She shook her head. 

“No.” 

“But you know what I’m talking about.” Bates said. She nodded. 

“Thomas is different than most men.” Bates explained. Catherine’s eyebrows hit her hairline at this point. 

Mr. Moseley cut across before she could say anything unnerving, “For which we should pity him.” 

“He’s quite normal when he’s not being rude.” Anna added for her sister’s sake. Catherine looked none too sure. “He’s a bit paranoid, but I suppose that’s just his way.” 

“So they took him fro being… that way?” Catherine mumbled the end bit, as if worried Mr. Carson would catch her saying the words and flay her alive. 

“No.” Bates corrected, stretching a bit in his chair again. He leaned over, rubbing Williams’ back when he began to gurgle again. Anna passed him over, wanting to take a sip of her cold tea, and Bates placed William carefully against his shoulder. There was a tiny wet patch on Anna’s breast where William had drooled on her. 

“They took him for the attempted suicide.” Bates explained, “But him being different is going to be very dangerous in York County Prison.” At this, Bates grew pensive, reliving in his own experience in jail. He was not alone, for Anna and Baxter both had suffered under the penal system and knew full well its horrors. Perhaps they were thinking on the scratching fabric of their uniforms, or the stale food they’d been forced to consume, covered in mold. The cold stale ail filling their cells as they stared for hours at dank concrete ceilings. The sound of other prisoners screaming in the dark. 

“There was a guard, when I was in prison.” Bates said, gathering everyone’s attention. He did not speak of his time in prison, and who could blame him? “A Soames Barsette…” Bates’ face grew heavy and dark, “He was known for being a bully and a thug, and he ran a little gang with other inmates he liked… including my old cell mate, who tried to keep me down.” 

Anna pursed her lips in knowing. 

“I remember one time, there was this bloke a block away from me. Thin, weedy looking… Weak. I figured he’d either die of shock or get transferred. I don’t know what he was in for, but I knew what he was bound for. We all did. The rumor was he was like Thomas, and Soames didn’t like that. Not one bit. He unlocked the jail cells of some of the more… violent inmates… and had the man drug out late one night when no other guards were near to stop him. I never saw him return, but I heard later that he was found naked and broken in the prison courtyard, several blocks from our ring. We all knew though, what had happened to him.” 

An ugly silence had fallen over their table. 

“Of course, Barsette’s reputation caught up to him.” Bates said, “He got transferred to another prison, Wakefield.” 

“What an awful man.” Anna said. 

“He was.” Bates agreed, “He was a very awful man.” But as Bates spoke he stroked William’s hair and soon became lulled by the action. It was easy to let such awful memories go when his beloved son was near. William gurgled again; it seemed he was having trouble staying asleep for long. 

Then again he was barely two months old. 

“I feel sorry for Mr. Branson.” Andy spoke up when no one else did. Anna shook her head. 

“Let’s not talk of that.” She warned, “Mr. Carson wouldn’t like it.” 

“Nor would Mrs. Hughes.” Mr. Moseley said. Down the hall, the echoes of Mrs. Hughes muted crying could still be heard. 

But Catherine was once more out of the loop and didn’t understand what was going on. “Why do you feel sorry for Mr. Branson?” She asked. 

No one answered her. 

~*~

Thomas lay upon his bed; he was unsure of how long he’d been still upon his mattress. The sun had come up and down, then up and down again. Time had lost all meaning in these days. He had no watch. He had no life. He had nothing but his hell, and hell was small. 

His only interruptions were the noises he could hear outside his window, sometimes the distant shouting of men or the honking of horns. Sometimes the squalling of animals such as now. A birds screech- a small mammals squeal- and then suddenly Thomas gave a start as something soft and brown fell right through his open window to drop with a plop onto his stomach. 

He stared, blinking owlishly down at a mouse which was frozen upon his stomach, whiskers twitching wildly amid reddish brown fur. It weighed less than a two pence coin, absolutely tiny, and had small furry ears. 

It was a harvest mouse, desperately seeking warmth and nourishment. 

“I’ll protect you.” Thomas said, dumbly.   
Either way the mouse couldn’t leave now. In a desperate attempt to seek warmth, perhaps sensing Thomas was far from a threat, the harvest mouse crawled up his stomach and entered the sleeve of his shirt. Thomas could feel him shivering against his arm. 

He closed his eyes again, but did not sleep. 

~*~

Someone was above him, attempting to get him to wake. 

Tom had quickly deteriorate from guilt and sorrow, leaving him a broken shell of a man that could no longer consume food or carry on normal conversation. Grief had swallowed him whole, and he was now in the belly of the beast wrestling with his demons hourly as he attempted to reason what God would allow this to happen to him? Was it the God he’d worshiped as a child? The God Sybbie had been baptized under? The God that damned Thomas to hell for being a man of a different nature? 

Or were each of these Gods one in the same, with no different save for the light the image cast? 

Someone was touching his shoulder, struggling to get him to roll on his back from where he laid on his side. His throat felt unbelievably dry. His body seemed to be burning with an internal fire. 

“He’s low.” Someone was saying, “He needs to eat.” 

“We’ve tried.” Another said, “He won’t take a bite.” 

“Mr. Branson, can you look at me? Mr. Branson- Mr. Branson-“ 

But Tom did not want to be talked to anymore. He did not want to rehash the misery of his past days. He did not want to eat when Thomas was surely not eating. He did not want to speak when surely Thomas was not speaking. 

“Leave me alone, damn you-!” Tom spat, shrugging off the hands that clutched to his shoulder. He rolled, sitting up groggily in his bed so that his vision spun wildly. 

There before him was Dr. Clarkson, Cora, and Mrs. Hughes, each of whom looked more concerned than the next. Mrs. Hughes eyes were puffy and swollen, bloodshot. Cora looked exhausted from nerves. Dr. Clarkson’s mouth was set into a firm scowling line. 

“I’m afraid I can’t do that, Mr. Branson, you’re-“ Dr. Clarkson tried to say, but Tom cut him off, uncaring. 

“Tell me what you can’t do, Doctor!” He babbled angrily, “Tell me all the things you can’t do. You can’t protect Thomas, you can’t save him from jail— yer’ feckin’ useless to me!” 

“Tom!” Cora said reproachfully, “Don’t be rude-!” 

But the word sparked wild anger in him. Rude? What was rude?   
Rude had no dog in this fight, no place in his world. Rude had lost its meaning now. 

There was no rude. Only right and wrong; only love and hate. 

“Rude, rude, RUDE!” Tom shouted, ready to tear out his hair as he tossed upon his bed. He threw off his soaking blankets, revealing his sodden bed clothes that were patched dark with sweat from his fever. He tried to stand up, but grew wildly dizzy and had to sit back down again; Dr. Clarkson seemed determined to keep him dizzy, and though he was ranting, Dr. Clarkson tried to take his pulse at his neck. 

“Rude?! He’s dyin’ in prison and you’re worried about rude?! Get off of me!” Tom jerked away from the man’s hands, clambering up again, to scuttle across his room and grab wildly at an unlit lamp upon his desk. 

“Is this rude?!” Tom demanded, and before anyone could stop he knocked the lamp off of his desk so that it shattered upon the floor. Cora brought her hands to her face, knowing full well she could not stop Tom’s rage. 

“How about this?!” Tom demanded, grabbing at his papers so that he could upend them all upon the floor. They fell down in a flutter of white, scattering across the carpet to soak up the golden oil issuing from the broken lamp that lay at his feet. “How rude do I have to be to get your attention?! To be a problem?! To get some feckin’ assistance!?” 

Tom stumbled across the room, determined to get in someone’s face if it meant getting results. But Dr. Clarkson caught him across the shoulders and held him still so that he could not jerk around. 

“Mr. Branson-“ Dr. Clarkson started to say, but Tom’s head was spinning and he had to sink down to his mattress again. 

“Fuck…” he said weakly, “Fuckin’ God… help me.” He sagged one breath after another. Weak, confused, and losing hope by the second, Tom did not know what to say anymore. 

“God help me…” He whispered again. He doubted God was listening. 

 

~*~

Thomas was not allowed the food issuances of most prisoners. The spoon, broth disk, and bowl often given out for porridge and milk consumption was instead brought to him with each meal and taken away again at the end. His meals were small and cold, consisting of oatmeal porridge, soup with ox marrow, stale bread, and treacle water or milk. 

At first, Thomas could barely stand to eat and would often become violently ill afterwards. He’d spent many an hour squatting over his lone toilet hole, essentially shitting his brains out from the awful conditions of his food. Beggars could not be choosers, however, and Thomas had found that though he could at best manage to swallow the soup and porridge, his harvest mouse would happily feast on his bread. 

He did not even bother with the milk, often standing upon his bed to throw it out his window. He soon found that stray cats living outside the prison walls would come calling to lap it up from the gutter. Likewise Thomas would throw his husks of molded breads to the birds… 

And suddenly he was hosting a fucking zoo in his cell. 

His harvest mouse could no more leave than Thomas, for he was growing fat on molded bread and seemed perfectly content to hide in Thomas’ mattress or pillow most of the time gnawing on the molded hay contained within. The birds that learned to come to Thomas window for food waited impatiently, bickering every noon upon his sill as he slowly lapped up his soup and allowed the animals to have the rest. 

At night, Thomas was absolutely alone save for Edward who seemed a near constant now that Tom was no longer a threat. He lay at Thomas’ side all through the night, whispering in Thomas’ ear. 

But Thomas could not shake the gnawing feeling in his stomach that something was not right. That Edward should not be here comforting him. 

Where had these feelings come from? Oddly enough, his harvest mouse. Thomas noted that though, for the most time the mouse would gladly come to him and hide within his clothes or mattress, the mouse would squeak and flee in terror to the opposite end of the cell every time Edward appeared. Likewise the birds on his window ledge and the cats outside would all run away. 

What did they know that he didn’t? 

Thomas woken up one night by the chittering of his harvest mouse as it scuttled across his solitary floor. 

He knew without opening his eyes that Edward was next to him. 

_“Thomas…”_ Edward whispered in his ear. Thomas could feel Edward’s hands slipping lower and lower- going for his pants. _“Thomas- let me love you-“_

“Edward-“ Thomas mumbled, brow furrowed. His cock practically shriveled when Edward tried to touch him. His body felt repulsed. 

_“Thomas I love you-“_ Edward whispered in his ear. 

No. No he didn’t. Tom loved him. Thomas’ eyes snapped open. 

He turned away from Edward’s, touch, slipping away from the blanket even though he was freezing without it to clamber up to his feet. 

He didn’t want Edward touching him in that way. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t normal. Ghosts weren’t supposed to have sex with living people. 

“Edward…” Thomas ran a shaky hand through his hair; it was practically slicked with oil for all the filth and dirt in it. It had been days since he’d taken a bath, and doubted he would be able to do so for months now. “Wait-“ Edward tried to rise up off the mattress; Thomas had forgotten how damn tall he was and instantly took another step back up, “Please, Edward-“ He put out his hand. 

_“Don’t be afraid, darling.”_ Edward murmured, reaching out a ghostly hand to try and take Thomas into his arms again. Thomas had now where left to back up in his solitary cell, and shrank bank unnerved. Edward seemed put off, frowning at Thomas’ lack of willingness. 

“You’re dead.” Thomas tried to remind him, “It’s not right for you to touch me.” 

Edward scoffed, gesturing between the two of them, his damaged eyes roving around Thomas’ cell, _“If I’m dead then what are you? Do you call this living?”_

“Stop it, Edward.” Thomas snapped. He didn’t need reminding he was in dire straights. 

_“Thomas, why do you reject me?”_ Edward demanded irritably, _“Why when we can finally be alone together-“_

But Thomas refused to dawdle in games, “We’re not alone together.” Thomas snapped, “I’m hallucinating a dead man is… is… sticking his hand down my pants and I’m not too chuffed about it-!” 

Edward bristled, angry, _“No why would you be when your grubby little chauffeur has warm hands of his own-“_

“Leave Tom out of this!” Thomas warned, but his voice began to drown out as he noticed that Edward’s grayed eyes were blackening… like a doll’s. Like coal. 

_“But this is Tom, isn’t it?”_ Edward sneered, _“He’s come between you and me, where he never belonged. He has no claim to you, you realize that? You’re mine! I’m the one that saved you from death back in July! I’m the one you belong to!”_

Edward would never talk like this. Edward would never say such awful things. Thomas shook his head unnerved. Edward seemed to realize that Thomas was coming to his senses, realizing that something amiss. The imposter in Edward’s form grew furious in a flash, and before Thomas’ eyes the softened features of Edward’s face grew sharp and demonic. 

Thomas gasped; Edward snarled and reached out clawed hands, charging him!   
Thomas screamed, turning his face into the wall and bracing for impact- 

…But no impact came. 

Thomas drew one shaky breath, then another, genuinely afraid to look. Finally curiosity won out over cowardice, and Thomas slowly looked around to see where Edward went. 

But he was alone. 

He suddenly realized if he was left alone in this cell, he would become a victim of Edward’s anger… if it was even Edward at all. He had to get out. He had to get to safety. 

Thomas ran to the cell door, hardly a decent job, and slammed his fist repeatedly into the metal. His vambrace brought about such an awful clang that Thomas would be amazed if he didn’t awaken the Queen of England herself. 

“Help!” Thomas screamed at the top of his lungs, “Let me out! Please, let me out!” But even as he banged, he knew no one was coming. 

He was trapped. 

_“Look what you made me do…”_ Came a soft voice behind him. 

Face pressed into the metal door, Thomas quaked. He knew Edward was behind him, knew he could not escape. 

“God help me.” Thomas whimpered into the metal. “Oh god-“ Tears of fear stung at the corners of his eyes, breaths shaky and wild as he finally turned around. 

Edward was on the opposite side of the cell, head bowed. His wrists were cut, ghostly black blood slipping from his cuts to drizzle upon the grimy stone floor. 

Thomas sucked in a breathe, grabbing at the metal behind him.   
Edward’s head shot up, his facial features grossly twisted in hatred and his voice venomous with rage. He sounded positively demonic-! 

_“LOOK WHAT YOU MADE ME DO!”_ Edward roared, and with his gnarled hands before him, Edward charged at Thomas. 

From outside Thomas’ cell door, his resulting wild screams could be heard early into the next morning. 

~*~

Dr. Clarkson’s orders were absolute. Tom was in no way allowed to be alone, and no longer allowed to refuse meals. As it stood he now sat upon the couch with a thin flannel blanket wrapped around his shoulders like a man dying. Even with the fire going, even with the blanket, Tom still felt cold and refused to take part in tea as Carson offered everyone a cup. It was beginning to snow again, and all the while Tom could not help but wonder how freezing cold Thomas was. 

Henry was in York, attempting to get some progress made on the shop. With Tom out of commission, there was a great deal of work to do and no one able to do it. Robert had been on the phone nearly all day with Murray, who’d called from York with an earful of news. While the others waited to hear what Robert had learned, Mary and Cora kept Tom company in the library. Mr. Carson looked horribly exhausted, as bad as Mrs. Hughes had appeared in Tom’s room a few days ago. 

He supposed the Carson’s were in just as much turmoil as he.   
Maybe they, of all people, could understand the impact of Thomas’ existence. 

The library door opened and Robert entered, followed by a bounding Tiaa who clearly wanted to be walked. She scampered about the couch, trying desperately to hop up though she was still too small. Robert clicked his tongue and she stopped; he was training her well just as he’d done with Pharaoh and Isis before her. 

“I’ve just spoken with Murray.” Robert said, accepting a cup of tea with silent gratitude from Carson. 

“What can he do?” Cora asked from across Tom on the opposite couch. 

“He said they’ve got Thomas in HMP Wakefield,” Robert sounded quite exasperated, “Which is absolutely ridiculous. Not even Bates went to Wakefield when he was on trial for his wife’s death.” 

“Wakefield…” Mary repeated the name but could discern no difference in her mind, “What’s the problem with Wakefield?” 

“It’s a notorious prison.” Robert explained, stirring milk and lemon into his tea, “Only the most dangerous men go there. High risk murderers and offenders that attack women. They don’t call it the ‘Monster Mansion’ for nothing.” 

“So why would Thomas be sent there?” Mary asked. 

“Murray’s unsure." Robert sat down next to Cora on the couch, taking a sip of tea. “But he thinks it has something to do with prison politics. He’s looking into it right now. They’ve had Barrow in solitary confinement since he arrived Friday morning… the poor man.” Robert murmured reproachfully, “Then again, he might be safer in solitary. Men of his sort don’t do well in prison.” 

Tom closed his eyes and looked away. Mary reached out and patted his knee, as supportive as she could be. 

“But I don’t understand, Mary continued on, “Why would he be in solitary confinement in a class A prison? He’s done absolutely nothing to warrant such punishments.” 

Robert pursed his lips, a man burdened by the wisdom life and taught him on the outer ring of politics, “He’s a different sort of man, and has attempted to end his life.” Robert warned his eldest daughter, “In the eyes of those responsible for prison security, he has warranted everything they can manage.” 

~*~

He couldn’t say for certain what had happened when Edward had attacked him.

—Edward. It wasn’t Edward. Edward wouldn’t do such things to him. It was some kind of vile demon taking Edward’s form, nothing more. 

Thomas had fought Edward off all night, but he weak from lack of proper nutrition and cold- he’d merely managed to roll at most upon the floor, screaming wildly as the demon had tried to tear at his neck and face. He’d kept his eyes pinched shut, too terrified to open them, and when the voices and attacks had stopped Thomas had laid petrified upon the floor crying all through the day. 

When the guard had brought in his noon meal, he’d found Thomas there, sobbing into the floor with his hands over his head frightened out of his mind. 

The rumor about HMP Wakefield, being passed from cell block to cell block, was that the newest member of solitary row (Thomas) was completely and utterly bat shit insane. The guards at his door during the day had heard him talking to himself, rambling incessantly. The guards that checked in on him first thing in the morning often found him talking rapidly to the walls, or the mattress, or one time even a harvest mouse that had scampered when guards had tried to make it go away. It was a week after Thomas’ initial lock up at Wakefield that he was allowed visitors, and the first one to come through was a lawyer. This surprised no one; lawyers often came first. Then family. 

Thomas, of course, knew nothing about this. All he knew was that he was in an archaic fight against a demon taking on his dead love’s form… and he was going to tell every member of his ‘zoo’ about it. 

“I tell you, it’s not Edward.” Thomas said rapidly to the cluster of birds that had come to peck at the husks of his bread. He held the harvest mouse in his hands, a creature he’d come to name Butter Bean simply because he was so small and sweet. 

Butter Bean chittered in his hands, gnawing rapidly on the center of the bread Thomas had torn out for him. Outside, Thomas could hear cat’s meowing from the milk he’d poured out the window. 

“Edward wouldn’t do this to me.” Thomas told Butter Bean and the many birds. Each listened attentively. “Edward was a good man, an honest man, he didn’t attack people.” 

But the sounds of footfalls crunching the gravel and sludge outside his door brought Thomas pause. 

He panicked, rising up on his mattress to brush his hand fervently against the chittering birds. Each of them fluttered away to avoid his fingers. 

“Go free!” Thomas hissed, squatting back down to hide Butter Bean behind his pillow. 

There came a loud scraping at his cell door; Thomas pressed himself against the far wall, afraid of what he would find on the other side. It wasn’t time for him to be fed again and his plate had already been taken away. Who was this person come to call? 

It opened upon a tall and muscled man with cropped dark brown hair and even darker eyes. He had a mustache, neatly trimmed at the corners, and a long jaw with a firm square chin. 

The name tag on his uniform read ‘Barsette’. 

“Who are you?” Thomas demanded, pressing himself up against the stone wall, “What do you want with me?” 

“Quite scum.” Barsette snapped, pulling out his baton and a pair of cuffs. Thomas flinched instinctively when Barsette waved the baton in his face, “You make trouble for me ‘an I’ll make trouble for you.” 

Barsette approached him, clearly about to cuff him. Thomas panicked and dodged only to be grabbed by the back of the hair and slammed unceremoniously into the wall. 

“Ah-!” Thomas cried in fear, squirming against Barsette’s iron hold. “Let me go! Please let me go!” 

Barsette reared back and cracked him hard on the back of the head with the baton. Dazed, Thomas slumped against the wall as stars danced vividly before his eyes. His wrists were cuffed at the bottom of his vambraces, and Thomas was drug out of his cell into the garishly bright world. At first, Thomas was blinded and couldn’t see. Slush bit at his toes, freezing his feet and making him stumble in his confused pace. 

Where was he going-? Thomas couldn’t get his bearings; his head hurt too bad. 

Barsette drug him across the courtyard and to a door that was opened to reveal a long and dim hallway. Thomas had not known fresh air and exercise in nearly a week, and his lungs burned excitedly as he craved human interaction. He staggered in Barsette’s hold, desperate to look at each policeman he passed. He wanted to be out in the world, to never be put back in that tiny room again! 

They came upon a door made entirely out of iron bars; Thomas could see that on the other side were a long stretch of interview cells and realized that someone must want to talk to him. But who? And why? 

Barsette offered no answers as they went up the hall, and when they finally reached the appropriate room, Thomas was all but flung into the cell so that Barsette could slam the cell door shut behind them both and lock the pair of them in. 

Thomas was given very little room to maneuver. It was merely him, Barsette, a small table and a chair on either side. He assumed he was meant to take one, and sat down carefully. 

He shook like a leaf upon his seat, and waited petrified for what must come.   
But it would not be for long. 

A portly man was walking up the hallway, being lead by another guard who was much more leisurely and calm than Barsette. Barsette opened the door for his fellow officer, but Thomas noted that the man didn’t seem to like Barsette and barely acknowledge him as he carefully sat the portly man down across the table from Thomas. 

The man was stout, with an iron gray gray walrus mustache and thinning hair. He was well groomed, well dressed, and wore an expensive suit. 

But who the hell was this man?   
Thomas could swear he knew but… he just couldn’t… figure it out- 

Oh-! 

“M-m-m-mr. Murray!” Thomas stuttered, amazed. This was Murray, Lord Grantham’s personal lawyer! 

“Mr. Barrow, how do you do.” Murray tipped his head to Thomas, looking him up and down for size, “I’m Lord Grantham’s lawyer, I’m here to represent your case. I apologize for my delay in response, but I wasn’t allowed in until today-“ Murray paused, lifting up his briefcase to open it upon his lap and pull out a thin sheaf of paper which he laid upon the table. Thomas was shocked to see his own mugshot paper clipped to the top of the notes- this must be his case file. “I’ve been going through your case, and I have to be frank-“ Mr. Murray pursed his lips, “We’re facing stiff opposition. At the moment, you’re looking at a standard six months in solitary confinement with conditional release either to an institution or another regular prison for three years. Given the nature of your crime, I’m prone to say you will be placed in an institution, most likely Briarcliffe. 

Thomas emitted a tiny noise of paralyzed fear. 

“I know this seems overwhelming.” Mr. Murray assured him, “But we can and will work with the judge to reduce your sentence.” 

“Oh god- no-“ Thomas suddenly realized that he was going to be in that box of a cell for six months- six fucking months! A week had nearly undone him mentally, what the fuck would half a year to do him? Would he even be sane when he came out? “I beg of you-! I can handle a regular prison cell but don’t put me back in the dark!” 

Though it hardly helped, he was beginning to sob. It must be stress- panic- he kept trying to talk. 

“Mr. Barrow,” Mr. Murray urged for calm, “ Try to regain some control over yourself- it’s not set in stone yet-!” 

“Edward-!” Thomas stuttered; Murray couldn’t possibly fathom the source of his panic. He had to tell him! “Edward is going to kill me- Please! I can’t go back into that cell!” 

“This session is over,” Barsette snapped, grabbing Thomas roughly by the arm and jerking him out of the consultation chair, “He’s barmy!” 

“But-!” Mr. Murray stood up, determined to get a conclusion of some kind. 

“Barsette-“ the other guard tried to intervene, “You can’t just-“ 

“I can’t just what?” Barsette sneered at the man, “Do my job? One of us has to, Francis.” The way Barsette said the name it was as if being named ‘Francis’ was a crime against humanity. The other guard flushed an ugly red, clearly furious at being shot down by a fellow officer. 

“PLEASE-!” Thomas screamed as he was handcuffed and drugged forcibly back up the hall, “PLEASE HELP ME!” 

But Barsette wouldn’t allow him to get any more out. He grabbed Thomas by the back of the head with his free hand so that Thomas’ neck was strained forcibly and he could not see where he was walking. 

When he was thrown back into his cell, he was not approached again for another week. 

~*~

“What?!” 

Mary’s outrage was shared by many in the library, though thank god Tom wasn’t there to witness it. 

After finally eating a solid meal, Tom had been given the reprieve of his privacy and had decided to take a nap despite it being mid afternoon. He seemed to sleep nearly all the time now, a fact which deeply concerned Sybbie who was so used to seeing her father up and bouncing around. It was a mark of the depression which had settled over them all. 

After attending his first interview with Thomas, Murray had returned to Downton to speak with Robert in person. He’d done this in the hope that Robert would be able to fully grasp the gravity of their situation, for it was very grave indeed. 

“Six months solitary confinement.” Murray repeated, to the shock of Robert and Mary both. Cora and Henry sat silent, each just as unnerved but wanting to hear the rest of the facts. 

“Conditional release to either Briarcliffe or a regular prison cell in Wakefield for another three years.” Murray paused, eyes flashing, “I guarantee that if he is sentenced to Briarcliffe, he will never leave it.” 

“What can we do?” Robert asked, wanting to talk solutions, not problems. 

“Well, the first thing that we absolutely must do is to clarify to the judge that Mr. Barrow is not insane.” Murray urged. 

“We had a psychologist come in from London last July.” Robert offered, “I’m sure he’d be happy to-“ 

“No.” Murray cut him off, shaking his head, “No, we cannot let anyone know Barrow has been seen by a psychologist in the past. It’ll damn his case and Barrow will be gone to us. We have to play this very carefully, treat him as normally as possible. We need a regular doctor, someone of good standing but someone who will be able to help us sway the judge.” Even Murray was in dismay, “It’s a very tricky position we’re in.” 

“But no trickier than Bates.” Robert offered, for if ever there had been a quagmire, it had been those months when Bates had been facing the death penalty. 

 

“What about Dr. Clarkson?” Cora spoke up, looking from Robert to Murray with keen eyes, “He’s serviced our family and our staff for years, and is a good doctor.” 

“Has Dr. Clarkson serviced Mr. Barrow?” Murray asked. 

“He has.” Robert agreed. “He was the man who stitched Thomas up the first time.” 

Murray took time to consider this new tidbit of information, eyes narrowing as he began to stroke his chin. As Murray remained silent, Robert continued on. 

“No one can tell Tom of Barrow’s sentence.” Robert warned his family, “Nor Mrs. Hughes. I don’t want this to reach their ears, not until we know what we can do.” 

But Murray seemed to have stumbled upon an idea, for surely if anyone stood to lose something it was the doctor that had kept silent about an attempted suicide. Just as Lord Grantham and Mr. Carson had nearly come under fire for possibly concealing a ‘crime’, so too would Dr. Clarkson if anyone ever found out he’d known. 

Perhaps they could form an alliance in this misery, and get the good doctor’s help one last time. 

“I think I have an idea M’lord.” Murray said, catching Robert’s eyes, “But I’m going to need your telephone.” 

 

And so the plan was hatched, albeit a tiny and feeble plan. 

Dr. Clarkson would be the one to investigate the claims of insanity against Thomas, and though the doctor had no specialized psychiatric training he would pronounce Thomas mentally fit after administering a series of ‘tests’. Of course, these tests would make an actual psychologist laugh. They had no honest bearing in them, not when they were administered by a man without credentials… 

But that was a bit of information Murray would be keeping to himself. 

Of course, though Robert had demanded that neither Tom nor Mrs. Hughes be alerted of Thomas’ conundrum, Tom had found out anyways. There were no secrets in Downton… certainly no secrets of this proportion. 

So that night, Tom sat miserably upon the library couch with his blanket still wrapped around his shoulders and the telephone in his hands. 

Why he’d thought to call Bertie he couldn’t say, not when he still had Kieran’s number memorized by heart. But in a way, Thomas wanted to talk to Bertie more than Kieran, knowing full well that his brother did not support him and that Bertie would do so endlessly. 

The man was somber on the other end of the phone, just as miserable and gloomy as Tom. 

“I didn’t know who else to call but you.” Tom admitted, slightly guilty for having dumped so much at Bertie’s feet. Who could know telephone calls could be so heavy? 

_“No…”_ Bertie said, his voice soft and crackling in the receiver, _“No I’m glad you did. God Tom, my heart is aching for you-“_

“It’s like a nightmare.” Tom choked, for never had the definition fit so appropriately. “It’s like a nightmare an’ I can’t wake up.” but the sounds of scattered laughing in the background could be heard and Tom knew that Bertie was pressed for time, “I shouldn’t have called you, you’re entertaining-“ 

_“It’s just a few foreign doctors that were touring the Northern monasteries.”_ Bertie admitted, _“So many of them need our aid to keep functioning, so I was approached to lend money to the cause. I urge of you, don’t hang up. They can happily wait for me— Edith is keeping them well entertained. To be fair, I think they’re entertaining her at this point. Two of the doctors are from India, they’re regaling her on their travels through Europe.”_

“What do I do, Bertie?” Tom asked, praying that Bertie would have some sagely advice to offer in this godforsaken time. “What do I do?” 

_“I think you’re doing all you can. Let me through some weight around, and see if I can’t find any loopholes. At least Murray is working on it-“_

“But what if Murray fails,” Tom could not bear to think of the consequences. 

_“Let’s not go there until we have to.”_

But Tom was afraid he would have to. That in the end despite how Bertie, Murray, Robert, or anyone else tried… he would never see Thomas again. He wiped at his eyes, blearily. 

_“I wish you were here so that I could console you.”_ Bertie said, but paused as someone’s voice came close to the phone. _“-I’ll be there in just a minute, I do apologize- It’s my brother in law. He’s terribly distraught…. Yes. Thank you. Thank you I assure you I won’t be long. Do get Her Grace to show you our gallery. We’re hosting the celebrated painting ‘Shakuntala’.”_

“The what? The Shakalaka?” Tom wondered dumbly. The Shakalaka? What kind of painting was that? 

_“The ‘Shakuntala’.”_ Bertie explained with a chortle, _“It’s quite an impressive piece by the celebrated artist Raja Ravi Varma. I thought Dr. Malhotra and Dr. Saachi might enjoy it seeing as it’s from their corner of the world.”_

“I guess.” Tom mumbled, but paused as he rubbed at the corner of his eyes again. 

…Who…? 

“Wait.” Tom paused, sitting up better on the couch. His heart nearly skipped a beat. “What were the doctors names again?” 

_“Dr. Maneesh Malhotra and Dr. Anya Saachi. Well, Dr. Anya Malhotra I should say”_ Bertie explained. _“They’re on their honeymoon and are touring religious hotspots in Europe. They’re heading out to Normandy in a few days, I’m quite jealous actually. They’re going to see Mont Saint Michel.”_

Tom’s heart skipped a beat as he thought of the book on a Dr. Anya Saachi had written- could it be that this was the one in the same? It was a difficult name to get mixed with twice. 

“Did… Did Dr. Saachi write a book on spiritual interferences?” Tom asked. 

_“Oh yes. She’s written several.”_ Bertie said, _“Her husband has as well. They’re quite famous for their work in Jerusalem—“_

“Do you think you could pass my number onto her?” Tom asked, praying to god he wasn’t coming off as too needy or bizarre. “I read her book and… I have a few questions to ask her. Very important questions. If it’s not too much trouble, see if she might call me.” 

_“I most certainly will— oh yes, I’m coming!”_ Bertie had to break away from their conversation again. _“Tom, I have to go, but I beg of you to call me as soon as you know anything new. Day or night.”_

“Thank you, Bertie.” Tom sniffed, having to pause to wipe his eyes for the third time. “You’re a good man.” 

_“My thoughts and prayers are with you.”_ Bertie said in closing. _“Good night, Tom.”_ and with that he hung up the phone. 

Tom sniffed, setting the telephone back upon the side table next to him. He looked at the fire, slowly dimming in the grate as the moon rose outside. 

It would be another sleepless night for him. 

~*~

Edward sat at the foot of his bed, glaring dully at him. It was raining, and the bottom of his cell floor was flooded. Butter Bean had no where to run, so Thomas had to hold the harvest mouse against his chest to keep him warm in the frigid cold. He felt nauseas and fevered, exhausted. He was certain he was ill from the wet and cold. He’d vomited several times in the past night. 

Now it was day again, and Edward had remained a constant presence though Thomas had yet to acknowledge him. 

“Don’t worry…” Thomas mumbled to Butter Bean, rubbing softly at the mouse’s reddish brown fur. The mouse had begun to let Thomas pet him, and the pair of them had grown a solitary alliance with one another to each keep their sanity. “Rain is a good thing, and soon it will be warm. Rain and sun grow wheat… and that gives us fresh bread. Things will turn out for the better… you’ll see.” 

_“They’re going to put you in Briarcliffe if you don’t knock it off.”_ The-demon-that-looked-like-Edward spoke up. Thomas did not speak back to him. 

He refused to, point blank. This creature was not Edward. 

_“..Talk to me.”_ The demon demanded. Thomas did not talk, merely contenting himself to rub Butter Bean who was hiding underneath Thomas’ navy blue shirt. 

_“I know you can hear me.”_ The demon sneered. Thomas still did not answer. 

_“IS THIS A GAME TO YOU!?”_ The demon shouted, perhaps trying to invoke fear. Thomas flinched, but remained absolutely still. 

Thomas heard barking laughter and footfalls outside his cell door. Thomas quickly stowed Butter Bean in his pillow, rising up so that his feet were suddenly sloshed with cold water and remnants of sewage. He pressed himself against the far wall, ready for another run in with Barsette. 

Amazingly enough, that was exactly who opened the door. 

“Good morning, crack pot!” Barsette sneered rain drizzling down upon his hat and shoulders, “Ready for a bath?!” 

As much as Thomas would have loved to tell Barsette to go fuck himself, he doubted this was a good idea for his rapidly declining health. 

Barsette stormed into Thomas’ flooded cell and grabbed him by the upper arm to drag him. Thomas noted that though Barsette passed right by the demon at the foot of Thomas’ bed, he neither saw him nor felt his presence. 

The outside world was caught in a heavy torrent as freezing cold rain poured down upon York. Thomas’ trousers were flooded up to the mid-calve as Barsette drug him through the courtyard. This time Thomas noted that instead of going back through the prison and its interview cells, Thomas was taken to a new door that seemed to be nearer the mouth of Wakefield. Inside, mud was tracked through in little lines, to show where prison guards had been walking as they moved in and out. Thomas was taken upon one such path, his wrists pinched tight behind his back and a firm scowl upon his soggy face as Barsette opened a metal door above which a placard read “Medical”. 

Inside was an infirmary, full of men that groaned and writhed upon their beds where they’d been chained and left to fend for themselves. 

This room smelt of filth and sickness, of vomit, piss, and diarrhea, and Thomas nearly retched from the god awful smell. Most men were obviously fevered, sweating through their prison uniforms and gasping for water. Some, however, were beaten black and blue about the face and neck. Thomas watched as these men flinched when Barsette walked past, dragging Thomas to the far corner of the infirmary where a white screen divided a private cell. One man in particular watched Thomas with pleading eyes, his mouth swollen and half his teeth missing. The poor man would never be able to talk right again. 

What did he know about Barsette that Thomas did not? 

Behind the white divider there sat a chair, laden by arm and leg straps. Another guard was on the other side (though Thomas did not know it it was the same guard that had taken pity upon him and given him the cell with a window). This guard grabbed Thomas about the shoulders, pulling him away from Barsette who glared irritably. 

“I’ve got him from here.” the guard warned, “You can go back to your post.” 

“…No.” Barsette drawled, “I don’t think I will. I’m bored, I want to see the show.” 

“This isn’t a show.” The other guard warned, “This is a serious medical investigation.” 

Barsette rolled his eyes, uncaring. He leaned up against the wall as Thomas was forced into the chair by the calmer guard. Thomas noted the man did not treat him roughly, instead carefully locking down his wrists and calves. Thomas caught his eyes as the guard straightened up from Thomas’ feet. The man reminded him of Jimmy, with sandy blonde hair and blue eyes. This man was older than Barsette, he had more lines about his face and more gray in his hair. 

The guard’s name tag read ‘Fletcher’. 

“So…” Barsette drawled, starting up conversation with Fletcher as he came to stand behind Thomas and placed his hands upon his shoulders. Thomas noted that Fletcher did not make to bruise his shoulders, his hands merely remaining still and heavy. “How’s life?” 

“Go get Dr. Moore.” Fletcher said. “He wanted to be here for this.” 

Barsette let out an irritable drawl and walked away from the secluded area. Thomas noted that Barsette seemed to be relatively lazy when he wasn’t try to torture prisoners. 

The prick. 

Fletcher walked around Thomas chair, reaching from a medical tray that lay upon a rolling cart. He brought out a shaving razor and Thomas panicked, withdrawing back into the chair as Fletcher squatted before him. 

“Hold still.” Fletcher grumbled, reaching up with his razor to Thomas’ cheek. Thomas knew he was forming a beard at this point, though he’d been unable to see it. 

“What are you doing?” Thomas stuttered. 

“Shaving you.” Fletcher snapped, “Now hold still or I’ll make a monkey’s tit of this.” 

Fletcher worked in silence, and Thomas could hardly interrupt with a razor to his neck. Piece by piece, his scraggly beard was cleaned off, and Fletcher seemed mildly impressed by his work when he was finally finished, scratching his jaw to tilt his head to the left and the right. 

“Yer hair’s still a mess but I can’t do much about that, can I?” Fletcher muttered, rising up to brush remnants of Thomas’ beard from his uniform and Thomas’ trousers. Fletcher tossed the shaving razor onto the medical tray with a sharp metallic clang. 

Thomas caught the man’s eye again, noting that Fletcher seemed slightly depressed. 

“…Who are you?” Thomas wondered aloud, “Why are you so nice to me?” 

Fletcher scratched his jaw again, looking over his shoulder. He even went so far as to poke his head out of the medical curtain to see if anyone was on the other side. 

“Keep away your mouth shut around Barsette.” Fletcher warned. “He’s a piss pot with a bloody awful temper and he’ll knock the teeth out of your mouth if he thinks you’re trouble to him.” 

“Did he do that? To that man in the bed?” Thomas gestured. Fletcher pursed his thin lips, tilting his head to the side. 

“That’s the thing about Barsette.” Fletcher warned. “He won’t let you catch him, he’s not that stupid.” 

So, smart and bastard… delightful. 

Fletcher glanced over his shoulder again, looking up the ward. 

“Here they come. Keep your act together.” Fletcher warned, coming around Thomas’ chair to stand behind him again. Sure enough, not a minute later the divide was pulled back to reveal Mr. Murray, the prison doctor, and Barsette who took one look at Thomas’ face and burst out laughing. 

“Hey!” Barsette glowed, “You shaved him! What are you a barber?” 

“I wanted him shaved for the tests today,” the doctor drawled. Tests? What tests-?! 

Thomas looked behind him at Fletcher who stared stoically straight ahead. 

But a sudden howling and thrashing came from beyond the medical divide, and the doctor took off again with Barsette right behind him, clearly giddy at the idea of human torment. 

Mr. Murray looked over his shoulder once, twice, then dipped forward and pressed his hear to Thomas’ mouth. Thomas heart leapt into his throat at the shocking movement. 

“Pretend you are strangers.” Murray whispered, then pulled back again, saying nothing more. Thomas stared at the man; Murray stared back. 

Behind him, Fletcher raised an eyebrow curious. 

Back came the prison doctor and Barsette, the screams of the anguished patient diminished into silence. 

“I don’t require your constant presence.” The doctor snapped, “I can do my job without you over my shoulder; in fact I would prefer it.” 

“What and miss out on all the fun?” Barsette jeered. “I love loonies. They’re my favorite!” 

“Jacobs isn’t a lunatic.” the doctor warned, “That man killed five people, and he’ll kill you too if you get too close!” 

“Ooh,” Barsette sneered, leaning up against the wall to cross his arms over his chest, “I quiver with fear.” 

The doctor rolled his eyes. 

“Mr. Barrow.” Mr. Murray tipped his head again, taking off his hat to dust water droplets off the top, “I’ve brought a doctor to examine you today. He’ll confirm whether or not you are mentally stable to further validate our case.” 

“Who is he?” Thomas asked, glancing at the prison doctor and wondering if it was him. 

“A Dr. Richard Clarkson.” Mr. Murray said. 

Thomas caught Murray’s eyes. “Pretend you are strangers” the man had whispered.   
Ah. This was starting to make sense. 

“He knows he’s dealing with a nutcase?” Barsette piped up, as if anyone wanted to hear his two cents at this point. 

“Dr. Clarkson has been informed of the details of the case.” Was all Mr. Murray said. 

“Yeah well-“ Barsette leaned in, bracing himself on the back of Thomas’ chair and his arm so that he could lean in dangerously close to Thomas’ shaven face. “Any rip out of you and I’ll bash your head in till it’s as soft as a boiled apple. Y’hear?” 

“Barsette-“ Fletcher snapped. “I’ll handle Barrow. You do your job… whatever that is.” He added irritably. 

“Ooh! The Lieutenant Colonel speaks!” Barsette drawled, relaxing back against the wall, “I didn’t realize you were so fond of lunatics. Thinking about getting a leg up when no one’s looking? Dusting your geezer rocks off?” 

Mr. Murray grimaced, disgusted. Fletcher heaved an enormous sigh. 

“Barsette, I would rather have sex with an insane inmate than put up with your bullshit for one more second.” Fletcher growled, “And if you don’t shut up I’m going to demote you to C.O. Do you understand me? Or do I have to remind you I am Lieutenant Colonel?” 

Barsette said nothing at this, clearly knowing when he needed to be quiet. 

_I’d have sex with you if I wasn’t in love with Tom_ , Thomas thought to himself. _You’re relatively good looking and you don’t seem to be an arse. That meets my two priorities ___.

_For a moment there was only silence, as the five men waited in tense anticipation. Then, Thomas heard the door of the infirmary ward open, and Dr. Clarkson’s voice hit the hair._

_“Thank you-“ He heard him say from across the hall._

_Thomas kept absolutely silent, pretending that he did not know Dr. Clarkson’s voice from Adam, until the divide was pulled and Dr. Clarkson entered._

_Thomas looked up, caught the man’s eye, and stared at him resolutely._

__It’s you and me now ___, Thomas thought, _Can we do what we’re required?_ _

__Clarkson gave a short terse smile, and shook the hand of the prison doctor._ _

__“Dr. Clarkson, I’m glad you’ve found us.” Mr. Murray said, “This is Dr. James Moore, he runs the Wakefield Infirmary.”_ _

__Dr. Moore did not look happy at being usurped._ _

__“This is Lieutenant Colonel Joseph Fletcher.” Dr. Murray added, “He’s in charge of all C.O.s…. and the rest.” Mr. Murray added, casting a wary eye at Barsette who was still leaning against the wall. No one introduced him, and Barsette scoffed, looking away._ _

__“Colonel.” Dr. Clarkson said, “Is this Barrow?” He gestured to Thomas as if they were strangers._ _

__“It is, indeed.” Mr Murray said._ _

__Dr. Clarkson tipped his head to Thomas, introducing himself like Thomas had never seen him before, “Mr. Barrow my name is Dr. Clarkson, I’m here on behalf of your lawyer.” He added, tipping his head to Murray, “I want to ask you some questions, please answer them as naturally as you can.”_ _

__Thomas swallowed, glancing at the men who surrounded him. “… Yes sir.” He finally replied._ _

__Dr. Moore pulled up Dr. Clarkson a chair, and Dr. Clarkson sat down in front of Thomas to stare him dead in the eye._ _

__“Do you talk to yourself, Mr. Barrow?” Dr. Clarkson asked._ _

__“…Um…” Thomas stuttered, “N-not really- sometimes when I’ve lost something I’ll say ‘where did I put it’ aloud. But..no. Not really besides that-“ Fear was tripping up his tongue._ _

__Why couldn’t he have just said a simple ‘no’ and been done with it? Behind him, Barsette snorted irritably._ _

__“Liar.” Barsette muttered._ _

__“Barsette….” Fletcher growled, his tone rising ominously._ _

__“I heard him ranting the other day-!” Barsette said indignantly. “Honest, Colonel!”_ _

__“Shut the hell up, Barsette!” Fletcher shouted, “Or I’ll throw you out!”_ _

__Barsette scowled, sulking against the wall. It was clear that he was afraid of Fletcher, even if he didn’t want to admit it._ _

__“Fucking Christ.” Fletcher cursed under his breath, clutching onto Thomas’ shoulders tighter. Thomas noted that through it all, Dr. Clarkson did not break his eyes from Thomas’. What was he looking for?_ _

__“What color is your hair?” Dr. Clarkson asked._ _

__“Black.” Thomas said._ _

__“Do you hear voices?” Dr. Clarkson asked. Thomas lied, knowing full well the truth would get him incarcerated for life._ _

__“No.”_ _

__“Have you ever sought psychiatric help?”_ _

__A hysterical question given that the psychiatrist in question was a good friend of Clarkson’s. “No.” Thomas lied again._ _

__“Do you set things on fire for fun?”_ _

__“No.”_ _

__“Are you a human being?”_ _

__“Yes.” Thomas replied, only to stutter, “What kind of a question-“ but before he could finish Dr. Clarkson just steamrolled right on._ _

__“Is King Richard the third alive?” Dr. Clarkson asked. Thomas scoffed, starting to grow annoyed._ _

__“No.” He said._ _

__“Do you avoid walking under ladders?”_ _

__“No.”_ _

__“Do you have violent urges?”_ _

__He was pretty certain Barsette did, “No.”_ _

__“Are you cohabiting in your own body?”_ _

__But Thomas didn’t understand that particular question and blanched, “I… I don’t understand that question. Could you rephrase it?”_ _

__“I mean to say-“ Clarkson explained, “Are you present in your body as of this very moment?”_ _

__Thomas still didn’t fully understand, but he had a feeling the correct answer was ‘yes’, “Yes.”_ _

__“Do you have multiple personalities?” Dr. Clarkson asked, “Aliases that act independently of you?”_ _

__Thomas didn’t fully understand that question either but had a feeling the answer was ‘no’, “No.”_ _

__“How long is this going to take?” Barsette droned from the wall._ _

__Fletcher snapped, whipping around to grab Barsette hard by the collar and drag him forcibly from the medical wing. Thomas could hear them shouting all the way to the door._ _

__“I didn’t mean anything by it!”_ _

__“When I tell you to ‘shut up’, that’s not a cue for you to keep talking!”_ _

__“But I swear I heard him talking to himself the other day- he’s completely cracked! He’s lying to the doctor-!”_ _

__“Well you’d know a thing or two about lying, wouldn’t you Barsette!? Now get to the main gate, and stay there!”_ _

__“But- until when-?!”_ _

__“Until it stops raining!” Fletcher shouted, and suddenly there was a loud metal slamming noise as the infirmary door was shut on Barsette’s face._ _

__Given that they lived in England, Barsette was going to be out there for a rather long time._ _

__Fletcher returned to the divided ward, still flushed in the face. He stomped back behind Thomas chair and grabbed him roughly by the shoulders so that Thomas winced aloud at the zinging pain. He had a feeling Fletcher didn’t mean to do it- he was just angry._ _

__“Easy, Joe.” Dr. Moore warned. “He’s not worth it.”_ _

__Fletcher took a massive breath, in through his nose and out through his mouth, relaxing his grip on Thomas’ shoulders._ _

__“I apologize for my Lieutenant’s behavior.” Fletcher said to Clarkson, “Please, continue.”_ _

__Dr. Clarkson stretched a bit upon his chair, unflustered, and continued right on._ _

__“Can you fly?” Dr. Clarkson asked._ _

__“No.” Thomas said._ _

__“Say you lost your voice. Could you look for it?” Dr. Clarkson asked._ _

__“….No,” Thomas said reproachfully, “If you lose your voice, you’re hoarse. It’ll come back with a tea or a tonic. It’s not something that can be found.”_ _

__Dr. Clarkson looked smug at this, scratching his jaw as he leaned back in his chair._ _

__“Do you own a hat?” Dr. Clarkson asked._ _

__“Yes.” Thomas said, thinking of his navy blue trilby that was still in the Carson’s guest bedroom closet._ _

__“A book?”_ _

__Thomas thought of the book Tom had given him for Christmas on etiquette, “Yes.”_ _

__“The holy grail?”_ _

__Thomas stared at Clarkson, reproachful. “…No?” He grumbled, slightly confused. Dr. Clarkson chortled, unable to help himself. Was any of this even funny?_ _

__“Very good.” Dr. Clarkson nodded, rising up from his chair, “That’s enough questions, I’ve got the measure of it.”_ _

__“Is he insane?” Fletcher asked, clearly curious. Dr. Clarkson shook his head._ _

__“Not remotely.” Dr. Clarkson assured them all. “But I am worried about his condition, he needs to be cared for better- he’s got the flue, I’m almost certain of it.”_ _

__“There’s been flooding in the solitary confinement.” Dr. Moore said, “We’re having hay put down right now.”_ _

__Thomas hoped Butter Bean would be okay. He pursed his lips, worried._ _

__Fletcher was the one the who lead him back to his cell this time, and they walked at a leisurely pace. The rain outside was still pouring down, but just as Dr. Moore had promised, hay was lain down upon the floor of his cell so that he was no longer standing in cold water. Fletcher lead him in, then un-cuffed his hands. So that Thomas could massage his wrists where his vambraces offered skin._ _

__“…Well…” Fletcher kicked a bit at the hay. “You keep your head down, you hear? I have enough problems without you adding onto them.”_ _

__“…And Barsette?” Thomas asked, unsure. Fletcher grimaced, scratching his jaw. Clearly he had a common itch at the tip of his chin._ _

__“Watch out for him.” Fletcher warned, “After today…? He’s probably pissed at you.”_ _

__“Are you going to demote him?” Thomas asked, knowing he was measuring on cheek in that moment. Fletcher grinned, seeming to like his sass._ _

__“I’m going to fire him if I get the chance.” Fletcher corrected him, “Now turn around and face the wall… put your hands up where I can see them.”_ _

__Thomas did as Fletcher bade, quiet and compliant._ _

__“Keep your head down.” Fletcher warned one more time, and then Thomas cell door was shut again to lock him back up in darkness once more._ _

__~*~_ _

__The rain had all but hounded the abbey, seeping into every crack and nook it could find. Downstairs the maids were running themselves silly trying to keep mud off the floor, while Tiaa had howled at the door to go out till Robert had relented and let her play in the mud. Andy had had to give her a bath afterwards, which would have been fine had Tiaa not leapt out of the tub halfway through and chased George and Sybbie down the hall who ran screaming like heathens. It had taken hours to put the mess right, and Tom had sought refuge in the private library to keep from snapping and shouting at the children to be silent._ _

__It was not their fault they could still find joy in the world. It was not their place to know of sorrow yet._ _

__It was growing close to dusk, and there was a lull in the storms through thunder and lightening were still peeling off from overhead. Soon it would begin to rain again; Tom wondered if Thomas was dry, or wet. If he could find adequate shelter in all of this._ _

__Tom heard the phone ring but paid no mind to it. He doubted it was anyone calling from him now that Henry was back from York. He sat with Dr. Anya Saachi’s book upon his lap, wondering if she might fein to call him before she left for Normandy._ _

__And suddenly Mr. Carson was at the private library door, tipping his head to Branson with a weary expression._ _

__“A telephone call for you, Mr. Branson.” Carson said, “A Dr. Anya Saachi.” He sounded absolutely exhausted._ _

__Tom sat bolt upright on the couch, nearly dropping the guilty book upon the floor as he staggered to his feet and made a bee line for the library door._ _

__“Thank you, Mr. Carson.” Tom said, “I’ll take it in the library.”_ _

__Carson did not even reply, too exhausted to make small talk as Tom headed through the door to the larger library and immediately took up the telephone from atop Robert’s writing desk. He watched as Carson plumped a few pillows upon the couch, picking up Tom’s book and setting it aside to fold his blanket. He looked ready to keel over._ _

__“Hello?” Tom spoke up._ _

___“Mr. Branson.”_ came a crackly voice on the other end, a woman’s exotic if not deep husky timber of a voice. _“This is Dr. Saachi, I heard that you read my book and had a few pressing questions for me. I apologize if I am calling you at a difficult time. His Grace has expressed to me you were grieving.”_ _ _

__“Yes- god yes-“ Tom considered it a blissfully good stroke of luck that he was even speaking to this woman after all the shit he’d put up with in the past two weeks. “Thank you so much for calling me, it’s a true emergency.”_ _

___“It’s quite alright.”_ she assured him, _“I have spent most of my life abroad in Europe and Asia studying the different philosophies of spiritual presence and human involvement in those presences.” she paused, _“In other words, the metaphysical arts, which are present in nearly every culture. I find they are often highly open to interpretation, so I am used to people writing or calling me in distress.”_ __ _

___“Have you been told my situation?” Tom asked, slightly wary that once Dr. Saachi knew he was not like other men she might hang up the phone._ _ _

____“I would like to hear it from your lips exclusively.”_ _ _ _

___“I will not lie to you.” Now was not the time to beat around the bush. “I’m not a man of usual tastes. My lover attempted suicide in July of last year and nearly succeeded. He’s been trying to reconnect with a man he saw during his near death experience— a prior lover apparently.” Tom tried not to sound too bitter, “The problem is that as we use the ouija together, and separate, he told me that the board started acting violently. That the spirits started acting out of character— in particular he saw the spirit of his mother attempting to harm him which goes against everything he knows. He thinks he did something wrong with the board, and I’m starting to believe I did too. What do you think?”_ _ _

____“Did either of you use the board alone?”_ Dr. Saachi asked. _ _ _

___“Yes.”_ _ _

____“And did either of you use it without saying goodbye?”_ _ _ _

___“I’m afraid so.”_ _ _

____“Your lover used this board in a time of emotional trauma, and did so unwisely.”_ Dr. Saachi explained, _“To use the board alone and without saying goodbye is a grave mistake. You both have allowed something to cross which should not have. Something ugly and dark.”_ _ _ _

___“Christ, like a demon?” Tom wondered in fear._ _ _

____“It often goes without a name.”_ Dr. Saachi said, _“I’ve seen it in every culture where the metaphysical arts are tampered with. It is a leech, and it takes a while for it to develop its power. First it must gain access through the board, then it must gain access through the person. The more you use the board, the stronger it becomes… and if you don’t use the board, it will taunt you.”_ _ _ _

___“Taunt you?” Tom repeated._ _ _

____“Frighten you. Attack you.”_ Dr. Saachi said to illuminate her point, _“As I said before, Mr. Branson, it is a leech. It sucks away at energy and sanity till nothing is left. it’s goal is to be a form of the flesh, but of course this can never happen. It was never alive. It cannot exist in our world. The creature will bring horrifically bad luck to its victim, everything from misery, to disease, to jail. In the end this creature will merely cease to exist along with its prey.”_ _ _ _

___“My god…” Tom whispered, suddenly realizing the full gravity of the situation. Thomas hadn’t been seeing his mother or Edward all this time— No! He’d been seeing some kind of demon, completely unaware! “What do I do?”_ _ _

____“Do not fret, Mr. Branson. The answer is relatively simple. You must first break the board into seven pieces, and then burn it in a fire. Destroy the door so that the creature cannot continue to enter through it.”_ Dr. Saachi said. _ _ _

___“Thank you, Doctor.” Tom was beginning to think, already forming a plan in his mind. He would do it tonight, he would find the ouija board right this very second and break the damn thing with the hatchet kept out in the servant’s area for the hall boy to chop wood. “I have to go now-“_ _ _

____“Mr. Branson, one more thing.”_ Dr. Saachi said before he could hang up, _“Take the ashes from the burnt board and bury them. As far away as you dare. Take them to a place no one else knows about to avoid accidental victims… and I urge you to never use the ouija board again.”_ _ _ _

___“Oh I promise you, I never will.” Tom meant every word. “Thank you Dr. Saachi- enjoy your honeymoon!” He added with praise. “Have a safe journey to Normandy.”_ _ _

____“Thank you Mr. Branson.”_ Dr. Saachi said, _“Goodbye.”_ _ _ _

___Tom hung up the phone, looking over his shoulder at the door to the main hall.  
He made a bee-line for it at once, determined to find the ouija board and put a stop to this insanity immediately. _ _ _

___~*~_ _ _

___That evening, close to dusk, Thomas woke up from a seemingly deep sleep, and felt… odd.  
Fevered, delusional, in need of aid… and above all he could smell something burning. _ _ _

___He sat up, rubbing his eyes in the darkness. It was still raining, but honestly drizzling at that point. Above him, Thomas could hear the peel and crack of thick thunder and lightning. Perhaps that was what had woken him. Perhaps lightning had struck a house or a barn and he was smelling the smoke on the wind._ _ _

___His stomach was beginning to churn. Thomas felt like he was going to be sick and grimaced, rubbing at the back of his neck. What would he give for some tea at this moment?_ _ _

___Butter Bean, who had been sleeping in the sleeve of Thomas’ shirt, suddenly let out a wild array of squeaks and fled terrified from the bed to cower in the far corner of the room. Confused, Thomas watched the harvest mouse bury itself underneath the hay that had been laid upon his sodden floor._ _ _

___A sudden chill came through his cell. Thomas shivered, pulling his blanket up to his chest._ _ _

___“Butter Bean.” Thomas whispered the mouse’s name. “Butter Bean come back.”_ _ _

___But Butter Bean would not come back and Thomas could suddenly hear an awful scraping noise upon the air. Like nails on the stone._ _ _

___Thomas shuddered, his breath coming out in a mist before him.  
There was someone else in his cell, a dark shadow in the corner with bowed out legs and long straggly hair. _ _ _

___“… Oh god.” Thomas whispered, clutching his blanket to his chest and pressing himself tight to the cement wall behind him. “Oh god no-!”_ _ _

___~*~_ _ _

___Tom burst through the green baize door, nearly bowling over a day maid as he stormed up the stairs to the servant’s attic. When he reached the top he headed for Thomas’ room, determined to search it over, and all but kicked the door in as he started to look. The first place he dove to was underneath the bed, searching beneath to find nothing but cobwebs. Then he yanked open the bottom drawer of Thomas’ nightstand, looking inside to find nothing. Surely the board couldn’t be at the Carson’s… Mrs. Hughes wouldn’t have allowed it over her doorstep!_ _ _

___Tom tried the wardrobe next, opening it to find it bare of Thomas’ clothes (they were surely all at the Carson’s now. He pulled open the shoe drawer and found it empty. He then tore across the room to the desk, and opened each of its drawers to find nothing suspicious inside._ _ _

___Damnit where the hell was it?!_ _ _

___“What are you doing?!”  
Tom whipped around to find Baxter in the door. Her eyes were swollen, her face bloodless, and she looked quite afraid of him at that moment, clutching to the door. _ _ _

___“Where is it?” He demanded of her, “Where’s the ouija board-?”_ _ _

___“Mr. Branson-“ She begged him, “I think you need to lay down-“  
Another peal of lightning and thunder shook the attics. _ _ _

___“No,” He ground out, “You tell me where that board is woman.”_ _ _

___“I don’t know!” She protested, and to be fair why would she? It wasn’t like she was prone to use it after all. Irritated Tom resumed searching, this time going for the bureau. He found nothing in the top drawer, and the next one was just as bare. The third level was divided into two, and as Tom opened the right hand side he let out an exclamation of relief. The planchette!_ _ _

___Tom grabbed it up at once, yanking open the final drawer of the bureau to find the ouija board tucked beneath, upside down. Tom grabbed it once, shocked to find that the wood was freezing to the touch. He was certain it was some source of malignant power and gripped the board tightly as he headed out of Thomas’ room and back down the servant’s stairs. Baxter followed him at once, looking quite fearful._ _ _

___~*~_ _ _

___Thomas knew the end was nigh, that if Edward’s demon would not kill him, his mother’s certainly would. He cowered against the cement behind him, pressing his face to the sound as his mother stumbled forward over the hay. Her legs made horrific crunching noises with each step she took. She reached his bed, her face black and obscured in the dusk glow. All Thomas could truly made out was the sodden navy of her dress, her black ringlets swinging to her gaunt skinny waist as she clambered up onto his bed._ _ _

___~*~_ _ _

___As Tom hit the bottom level and made a bee line for the back door, Baxter followed him like a hawk. He did not care, he was unseeing to anything but his goal as he twisted the iron key in the old fashioned lock to open the back door and step out into the area yard. It was already flooded, water reflecting black and menacing clouds above as lightning flashed again and again! This was twister weather, but Tom was not afraid as he reached the chopping block and jerked the axe free of its hold in the stump._ _ _

___“What are you doing!?” Baxter cried out from the door as the wind blew wildly about her skirts. He momentarily saw a bit of her beige slip and had to look away as he set the ouija board face up on the chopping block._ _ _

___Seven times, Dr. Saachi had said?  
Try fourteen, god damnit. _ _ _

___“Stay back!” Tom shouted as the door began to crowd with other people. Mrs. Hughes came out of the door with Anna right behind her; in her panic she reached blindly for Tom’s heaving bicep even as he began to lift the axe over his head._ _ _

___“Mr. Branson- Tom-!” She pleaded with him, “Come inside, what are you doing?! The world is about to crack over our heads.”_ _ _

___If Mr. Carson and Baxter had been fretful, it was nothing compared to the condition of Mrs. Hughes. She was the most miserable of the lot of them. The most afraid._ _ _

___But Tom refused to live in fear anymore. He refused for this to be his fate: miserable, alone, hounded by an invisible beast._ _ _

___“He made a mistake and opened a door.” Tom explained, “I have to close it. Now stay back!” He urged Mrs. Hughes aside, bringing the axe high over his head. Mrs. Hughes took several steps back her hand over her heart. Baxter and Anna were right behind her, watching with wide eyes as lightning flashed again over head and rain began to pour once more._ _ _

___Tom steadied himself, took a sharp breath his nose, and then brought down the axe with all the strength he could muster!_ _ _

___~*~_ _ _

___Thomas cried out, petrified as his mother’s demon straddled his waist to press him down into the mattress. Despite being wraith like in form, she was incredibly strong and Thomas could not fight against her in his weakened state._ _ _

___“No!” Thomas begged, even as her clawed hands reached up to his throat. He tried to fight her off, tried to keep away, but she refused to give sway. “No- NO-!” but suddenly his mother’s hands clamped around his throat, and she began to choke him!_ _ _

___~*~_ _ _

___Again and again Tom brought the axe down, cracking the board like a mirror shattered by a rock._ _ _

___It broke into two-  
Into four-   
Into six-! _ _ _

___With one last wild swing, Tom brought the axe down to crack the board into seven jagged pieces of splintered wood. He tossed the axe aside, uncaring where it fell as he grabbed up the pieces and the planchette along with it. He was now soaked to the skin but he was not the only one. In their transfixed state, all three women were likewise dripping, their hair wet in its hold._ _ _

___~*~_ _ _

___Thomas gasped, floundering— stars bursting before his eyes!_ _ _

____“Die!”_ The demon spat, her hands tightening to a vice like grip. He couldn’t breath-! He couldn’t-! _“Die! Die! Die-!”_ _ _ _

___~*~_ _ _

___Tom ran back through the area door, nearly slipping upon the floor from his sodden shoes as he made a bee line for the servant’s hall and the roaring fire it held. He knocked into Andy, nearly flattening him in his fervor. Mrs. Patmore poked her head out of the kitchen, shocked to find Mrs. Hughes, Anna, and Baxter all dripping upon the floor._ _ _

___Tom tossed everything onto the fire, feeling incredibly triumphant as the board started to blacken and burn._ _ _

____Die_. Tom thought bitterly, glaring at the charring pieces that were started to gleam with embers, _Die you bastard_. _ _ _

___“What on earth is going on?” Mrs. Patmore demanded, stepping out of her kitchen to see what the commotion was all about._ _ _

___“Thomas opened a portal with the ouija board.” Tom said, uncaring if the others believed him at this point or thought him mad. “He didn’t use it right. A doctor told me to break it into seven pieces and burn it…” He turned to look as Mrs. Patmore who was listening with rapt attention. “And that’s exactly what I’m doing.”_ _ _

___Mrs. Patmore left, perhaps to dunk her head in the kitchen sink to clear her brain of the nonsense Tom had just tried to stuff into it._ _ _

___But Tom didn’t care. He just watched the board continue to burn, smoking heartily as paint and wax began to peel away. Tom’s eyes were transfixed as a shard bearing the image of the moon suddenly became unrecognizable._ _ _

___And suddenly Mrs. Patmore was back with her ceramic salt bowl in hand. She opened its heavy lid, grabbing a meaty fist full of salt to chuck it wordlessly into the fire._ _ _

___In a shocking reveal of chemistry, the salt turned the flames cherry red. Anna gasped, her hand leaping to her throat._ _ _

___“It’s demonic!” She said in fear. “It turned the fire red.”_ _ _

___“It’s sodium.” Tom correctly her softly, never looking away from the board. Mrs. Patmore stood silently at his side, her superstitions and methods ingrained deep into her being by this point in her life. Tom had been wrong to think she wouldn’t believe him. She, like Mrs. Hughes came from a more spiritual generation._ _ _

___Even if they would never admit it out loud._ _ _

___~*~_ _ _

____“DIE! DIE! D-“_ _ _ _

___Thomas head slammed one last time into the moldy mattress beneath him, and then suddenly his vision faded to white._ _ _

___His first thought was that he was dead, that he’d been choked to death by a demon, but that didn’t seem right because he could hear his heart beating ferociously in his ears. Could taste air in his throat- cold and damp. His lungs were aching, his head pounding like a drum. He felt weak, exhausted, without even the slightest vestige of strength._ _ _

___When his sight dimmed and finally returned to him, it was still dusk and he was still upon his bed. Nothing had changed, save that Thomas no longer felt so frigidly cold, and he was no longer being choked by a demon in the form of his mother._ _ _

___But that did not mean he was alone._ _ _

___Thomas’ vision swam in the gloom as he looked up to see a woman sitting at the foot of his bed. She had rigid posture, her navy dress starched and clean- her black hair bound up in a soft bun so that a few ringlets hung loose._ _ _

___Even in a nearly turned profile view, Thomas knew who she was.  
In his aching heart, though his brain was muddled and his lungs weak from lack of oxygen, Thomas realized that the woman was his mother. _ _ _

___His actual…  
…. His actual… _ _ _

___HIs mother slowly turned and looked at him. Her blue eyes were calm, her expression slightly mournful. She looked incredibly exhausted, just like she had in life. Her legs were no longer broken with bones sticking out. Her fingernails were intact and smooth, like almonds upon her skin._ _ _

___She reached out, and with a soft hand touched Thomas cheek. Her cold knuckles brushed against his sweating skin._ _ _

___She stared at him with such longing that she seemed to be trying to absorb him._ _ _

___ _

___“… You always were such a nosy child.” She whispered, her voice as quiet as the wind, but incredibly real. Not the echo of a ghost, “Have you learned your lesson? Not to touch things of the devil’s hands?”_ _ _

___“… I love him.” Thomas’ tongue felt thick in his mouth._ _ _

___“That’s not what I was talking about, Thomas.” She said._ _ _

___“What?”_ _ _

___She scooted a little bit closer to him, her starched dress tugging on the molding mattress beneath him._ _ _

___“…The board.” She said, bracing his head so that her hands were on either side of his face. One of her ringlets touched his face, so incredibly soft._ _ _

___There could be no denying that this was his mother._ _ _

___~*~_ _ _

___As soon as it was safe to do so, Tom collected the ashes from the hearth of the servant’s hall and stowed them in a broad sack that had once been used for ashes. By the time that Tom had washed his hands and carted his sack out back, the rain had stopped pouring down and was instead merely drizzling. He stalked down Downton’s gravel drive which was now more like a river, his shoes and trousers getting soaked. In one hand he carried his sack, in the other a shovel he’d nicked from the grounds keeper’s shed. As if predestined by fate he already knew where he was going to bury the ashes… in the shed Thomas had once shown him in the woods._ _ _

___He found the old frozen rive to be gushing now from the sudden flood, practically white rapids. Tom knew that, should he slip, he would make his end a watery one. Determined to cross, He tossed the shovel and the sack over to the other bank so that both his hands could be cleared. Backing up several paces so as to gain a good vantage point from which to jump, Tom turned and ran flat out to leap like a wild horse over the rushing rapids._ _ _

___He crashed onto the other side, the muddy embankment causing him to slip and hit the dirt so that suddenly he was absolutely filthy. Unperturbed, Tom clambered back up to his feet spitting out mud from his mouth to wipe his face with the back of his hands. He grabbed his shovel and sack, and was off once again to find the cabin._ _ _

___From there it wasn’t much of a stretch, the cabin was just the same as it had ever been. The water seemed to have weakened the structure of the foundation, which should have been a warning sign to Tom though he chose to flat out ignore it in favor of his errand. The dirt surrounding the house would be no good for digging. It was as sloppy as a soup by this point. In order to find good ground, Tom went right inside the cabin and brought his shovel down like a pick axe upon the floor. Rotted wood spit as easily as a dried log left out for chopping and Tom began to hack his way through the center of the floor till he came upon undisturbed earth beneath. Then he started digging, with no where to put the dirt but right on the cabin floor. He wondered if it mattered whether he dug deep or not. Whether it would keep Thomas safer to seal the top of the hole with stone, or with the wood he’d chopped to get through. In the end, Tom decided that had such details been important Dr. Saachi would have mentioned them._ _ _

___When he finally felt he’d dug deep enough (nearly up to his waist in the ground), Tom grabbed the sack full of ashes and dumped it into the hole. He climbed back out, hoisting himself up onto the wood and then rolling away to squat by his carved opening and toss in the planchette. It landed softly atop the sack, the only evidence that the contents within had once been a ouija board._ _ _

___~*~_ _ _

___“The… b…” Thomas couldn’t talk, he was so exhausted, “Board?”_ _ _

___“Yes.” She nodded slowly, “The board.”_ _ _

___And suddenly a wave of remorse so thick and painful hit him that Thomas could not help but start to blubber. Since the day he’d been forced out of his house, since the night he’d had his virginity robbed of him on a forest floor, he’d wanted his mother to hold him as she’d done when he was small. To protect him from the world._ _ _

___“I’m so sorry, mumma…” He blubbered, “I’m so so sorry.”_ _ _

___His mother said nothing, her expression shifting with new grief and pain. She tilted her head, examining him closely, watching as tears slid down his cheeks so that he tracks could steal away bites of grime._ _ _

___~*~_ _ _

___Exhausted but dirty, Tom drug himself from the cabin to stumble back to the river. He didn’t have a clue how he was going to cross it this time, he was so exhausted. He found it gushing just like as before, and for a moment merely stared at the river despairingly until he decided to buck it up and toss his shovel back across._ _ _

___Tom took an exhausted breath, bucked himself up, and leapt one final time. He nearly fell into the rushing stream this time, one of his shoes getting caught up in the water so that Tom was now without one shoe and covered in mud from head to toe._ _ _

___Mr. Carson wouldn’t have a problem with him looking like this at all, he was sure._ _ _

___~*~_ _ _

___A good hundred miles to the Northeast, Thomas was still sniveling._ _ _

___“Stop crying.” Her ghost whispered; bidden by his mother, Thomas clamped his mouth shut though his chin still wobbled, “You always cried too much. Stop crying.”_ _ _

___“But…” Thomas croaked, remembering that his mother had committed suicide because of him, “You died because of me-“_ _ _

___She shook her head again, still slowly._ _ _

___“Not in the way you think.” She whispered._ _ _

___Thomas blinked._ _ _

___“I didn’t die because you were bad.” His mother’s voice was growing thick with emotion, “I died because you were gone.”_ _ _

___And suddenly her own eyes were growing wet._ _ _

___She leaned in, and Thomas took a slow breath as she kissed him softly upon the brow._ _ _

___“… I am so sorry.” She whispered, her lips against his fevered skin, “I love you. I never said it… but I love you.”_ _ _

___Thomas felt his throat clench with incredibly emotion, fresh hot tears spilling from the corners of his eyes as his mother’s lips remained upon his sweaty forehead._ _ _

___“So very much.” She mumbled into his hairline._ _ _

___Thomas closed his eyes, soothed by her touch. He reached up, blind in his own darkness, fingers groping for her hair, for her dress-_ _ _

___But they touched nothing._ _ _

___Thomas opened his eyes, tears still cooling upon his skin.  
His mother was gone. _ _ _

___~*~_ _ _

___By the time Tom had made it out of the wood and back onto relatively stable ground, he was about ready for a bath and a nap. He drug the shovel behind him so that it scraped in the gravel road, suddenly feeling like he’d been sucked dry of all the energy in the world._ _ _

___“Hallo there!” A voice suddenly called to him from far up the road. Confused, Tom looked up to see a man quite far away, waving his hand emphatically as if calling for Tom to come assist him. In the glare of the setting sun, Tom could barely see the man. He cupped a hand to his brow, trying to block out the light._ _ _

___“Hello?” Tom called as loudly as he could. The man just kept waving. He seemed oddly overjoyed._ _ _

___“This is where we part!” The man declared with bizarre delight. “Brava to you, soldier! Fight the good fight!”_ _ _

___…Well clearly the man was cracked like an egg._ _ _

___“Christ, there’s one that got away.” Tom muttered as the man continued on up the road. Not much later he was swallowed up by the path and Tom could no longer see him. Clearly the rain brought out all the lunatics._ _ _

___Exhausted, Tom carried on up the gravel road taking the shovel with him._ _ _

___ _

___ _

___As expected, Carson was utterly furious with him and Tom was forced to eat his dinner upstairs in his room after taking a long and luxurious bath. His one remaining shoe was given to Tiaa to chew on as an act of good faith; Tom drank deeply that night from a bowl of chicken broth. Apparently he was back in Mrs. Patmore’s good graces again._ _ _

___Exhausted by his afternoon adventure, and feeling oddly lightened by the battle, Tom found himself growing unusually weary despite it only being nine at night. Normally he could stay up till past midnight without a problem, but tonight it appeared he needed to go to bed early and stay there. He fell asleep without truly trying to, exhausted, and awoke much the same though he knew that time had passed since the fire was low in his hearth and there was no sound or light issuing from outside his door._ _ _

___Tom felt… warm.  
Safe.   
Loved. _ _ _

___Someone was next to him in bed. He rolled his head sleepily upon his pillow and inhaled the soft scent of lilac and summer rain._ _ _

___He slowly opened his eyes, only to have his vision obscured by a sweet pale face and ropes of deep brown hair._ _ _

___“Tom…” Sybil whispered, so very real and solid that Tom could have reached out and touched her in that moment. Heart aching, Tom’s fingers twitched; his heart gave a start when they managed to touch the physical presence of Sybil next to him._ _ _

___Was she real?_ _ _

___“Sybil.” He reached for her again, and when her skin found his own his heart clenched at how cold she was. How fragile._ _ _

___Tom was warm but Sybil was not. He supposed, with a sinking feeling, that that was because he was alive._ _ _

___“Am I dreaming?” Tom asked, certain that this was nothing more than a vivid hallucination his head had concocted up after his wild adventure._ _ _

___“In a way.” Sybil said, nuzzling her head against his chest in order to feel the heat radiating above his heart. “You were so smart to break that board and burn it. Oh thank goodness, I was so worried….”_ _ _

___“Was it the right thing to do?” Tom mumbled, so sleepy that he almost closed his eyes again._ _ _

___“It was.” Sybil assured him, “And now Thomas is safe.”_ _ _

___Tom breathed a solid sigh of relief, the warmth around him like a cocoon. “Will you go soon?”_ _ _

___“I’ll stay as long as I can.” Sybil replied. Tom felt her fingers splay out over his chest.  
Her touch seemed to bring up massive walls of pain. _ _ _

___He’d allowed one lover to die while bearing his child. Now he was allowing another lover to rot in jail._ _ _

___And why? Because of his cowardice? Because he wasn’t a man enough to defend what he loved?_ _ _

___“I’m so scared, Sybil.” Tom whimpered, “I’m scared he’ll never come home to me.”_ _ _

___“He will.” Sybil assured him, whispering softly in his ear so that her breath and hair tickled his skin. Could it honestly be that she was dead? “Wheels are already in motion, Tom. He will return.”_ _ _

___“Sybil…” It was difficult to say whether she was laying next to him or laying atop him; all he knew was that her love was keeping him warm and safe. That she was holding him near and would not leave him until he was ready. “I love you… I love you both.”_ _ _

___Sybil’s mouth skirted against the shell of his ear, “Heaven lasts always.” she whispered, and with that she kissed him softly._ _ _

___ _

___ _

___Tom gasped awake.  
It was dawn. _ _ _

___He was breathing fast even though his dreams hadn’t been erratic or painful. Indeed they’d been rather loving and sweet. But they’d felt so real- God Tom could have sworn that Sybil had been laying in bed next to him. That she had kissed him and pressed her hand over his heart._ _ _

___Had he truly dreamed it all?_ _ _

___his heart began to ache, and Tom rubbed at his chest directly over where Sybil’s fingers had been in his dream. His skin seemed to burn for the lack of her touch, and he rose from bed to fetch himself a glass of water from the pitcher upon his dresser._ _ _

___The water did not help but, but it at least refreshed him. The soft cool blue light emitting from his window enticed him over, and Tom sat upon his window sill to peer out past his lace curtains._ _ _

___After the horrific rain from yesterday, a soft mist was now left to creep over the ground. The snow had been washed flush away, and green shoots had popped up overnight desperate for their chance in the sun. The sky was clear, showing pale pink at it rim where land met the horizon. The forests and hills of Northern Yorkshire were so incredibly peaceful at this time of day that it was difficult to fathom there were bad men in the world. That there was pain._ _ _

___But the proof lay in the pudding, or rather in Tom’s bed, and the lack of the second occupant it held. Neither Sybil nor Thomas were here to help him now._ _ _

___But that did not mean he was alone._ _ _

___Far out in the yard, where wood met grass, Tom spotted a dark red shape carefully moving in and out of the gloom. He squinted his eyes, leaning in till his nose touched the window._ _ _

___It was a female red deer, and her fawn._ _ _

___The doe carefully toed her way out onto the clipped lawn of Downton Abbey, looking left and right before permitting her fawn to follow her. The pair of them were the lone figures of the lawn, taking care to eat their fill before Tiaa was eventually let out and all hell would break loose._ _ _

___It touched him, incredibly, and his heart bleated with emotion as he reached up to touch the glass pane. Where fingers met glass, a soft white mist began to form from change in temperature._ _ _

____“Heaven lasts always,”_ Sybil had said in his dream.   
And Tom supposed Sybil had been right; one just had to know where to look for it._ _ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please comment if you have any questions or concerns. I am more than happy to answer them.


	21. The Pomegranate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Joyous news is followed by a shocking turn of events.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the final 'dark' chapter in this fanfiction. There is a **trigger warning for a graphic scene of a physical attack** After this, there will be nothing but golden sunshine, well deserved by Mr. Barrow. This chapter was by far one of the hardest to write.

The clock at the end of their hall chimed softly to indicate it was one in the morning. Slumped at the side of her bed, Elsie Carson swayed ominously upon the mattress, staring listlessly off into space somewhere near the door. 

Rain pattered on the window pane. Was Thomas wet? She couldn’t say. 

That was why she couldn’t sleep really. The lack of knowing. When it snowed she feared he was cold. When it rained she feared he was wet. She worried for the people chaining him up, for the people letting him loose, and for the people in between that would poke and prod him demanding answers he couldn’t advisably give. When these thoughts began to plague Elsie (as they often did) she found she could not sleep. She’d tried to do something productive with her time at first- folding table clothes and straightening rooms in her cottage. But then she found her grip on the situation began to slacken as the hours waned. When the dawn waned, Elsie realized she’d not slept all night. Charles found her downstairs, sitting on the sofa, slightly confused as to why she couldn’t sleep. 

She felt surely that she would sleep the next night… but as the sun set and the moon began to rise, Elsie found she could not sleep again. 

And then a third night came. And here she sat. 

She could feel something at the corner of her mind, a nagging. At times she could have sworn she heard a pattering of feet upon the floor. A giggling, soft and high. A crying or whining, like that of a small child yearning for his mother. 

Charles didn’t know what to do. He’d offered a tea for her, had even urged her to take a pill to calm her nerves. Neither had worked. 

“…What if the board … was a doorway?” Elsie wondered, eyes sagging. Charles gently stroked the small of her back, his fingers running up and down her spine. 

“Sleep, Elsie.” He whispered. 

Elsie knew she ought to but it was just so hard to stop her brain- so very very hard.   
She could swear that she—

She looked up, and was slightly intrigued to see a small boy at her doorway. Chubby with a mop of black hair and rather round blue eyes, the little boy wore pajamas and hung to the doorframe blinking blearily up at Elsie. 

She must be sleeping now. She must be dreaming, surely. 

“Mumma?” the little boy whimpered. 

“Elsie-!”   
Charles’ loud voice jarred her so badly that she almost cried aloud in fear. She’d slipped from the bed and nearly fallen to the floor, but Charles had caught her just in time around the waist. It seemed that she’d fallen asleep while sitting up, and the result had been that she’d almost fallen straight to the floor. 

Gasping, frightened, Elsie was pulled back onto the bed by Charles, and though she did not want to rest he forced her to lay against her pillow. She felt a sweat breaking out upon her brow and neck, shivering as if taken by a sudden cold though she felt incredibly hot. 

“Enough of this.” Charles urged, almost taking a tone that he might use on the hall boys and footmen. “Lay down beside me-“ 

Clad in bed clothes, the pair of them were pressed side by side in the dark of the bedroom as Charles wrapped an arm beneath her neck and stroked her cheek. 

She tried to close her eyes but it was beginning to rain again… and she just couldn’t stop worrying. 

“Put your faith in God and his providence.” Charles whispered, “Thomas will return to us safely.” 

But Elsie just couldn’t be certain anymore. 

For a moment she merely lay quiet in her husband’s arms, trying to steady her breathing and relax her mind. It felt almost impossible to do, but… 

At the corner of the bed, right next to the night stand, the little boy had found his way to the mattress and was watching Elsie from its side with his tiny nose touching the cloth. His pudgy fingers were curled upon her duvet, his blue eyes gazing at her intensely. 

She was so tired now that it seemed she was on the verge of hallucinating. She knew she had to sleep. But how? How to do what she’d done a million times before… how to relax- 

“Mumma…” The little boy whimpered.   
Elsie closed her eyes, and the world around her faded into quiet. 

 

~*~

The next day, on the other side of town, someone else was exhausted to the point of wanting a nap.

When Robert had told his mother about the ‘family problem’ as he was now putting it, he’d expected her to be irate that he’d even allowed Barrow to stay on.. Instead he’d found her- if anything- irate for allowing him to get arrested in the first place because ‘Didn’t everyone know that servant’s told all the family secrets in prison?’. She’d never thought him particularly clever in the first place, now she was blaming him for Barrow’s arrest. 

Honestly, she acted like he could have swayed Sergeant Willas in the first place. Perhaps in her time money had been an influential aspect of the law, but as far as 1926 was concerned, Robert’s ability to sway the law was dimming. 

Of course, the first person to tell the Dowager Countess of Grantham that her power was dimming over the lower class was the first person to get shot for treason, or so Robert had been brought up to believe. 

His mother was hardly concerned about Barrow, or so Robert felt. What she was concerned about was the fact that a servant of sixteen years had been put into a class A prison amongst others who would gladly skin their lot for pelts and coats In her mind, Barrow might happily sell the secrets he’d learned over sixteen years in order to get out of prison alive: such as the fact that Lady Mary had once bedded a Turkish Diplomat to his death before marriage, or that Lady Edith had bore a child out of wedlock. 

But Robert believed in a thing called honor (as foolish as that might make him) and in his mind Barrow would sooner sell his soul than sell the secrets of the family. 

Not now, since he so clearly loved Tom. 

Honor was a dead concept to the Dowager, much like integrity and human decency, so it came as no surprise to Robert when he received an invitation to take tea with her on Wednesday. 

He went, of course, he knew he’d be a fool not to, but highly doubted he was the only visitor that day. He took Cora just for good measure, feeling like one ought to have backup in such high tense situations. When the pair of them arrived, they were greeted at the door by Spratt who showed them into the sitting room only to find that two other guests were already waiting. Isobel and Lord Merton were there, the poor man appearing quite fretful in his suit and tie. His mother was likewise sitting at her desk, pen perched over parchment as if she’d been in the middle of making a shopping list when her guests had arrived. 

Robert hadn’t been surprised when she’d insisted there would be one more to their party.   
He had a feeling he knew who the sixth member was. 

“Do you honestly expect this to work?” Robert demanded, watching carefully as his mother put away her stationary and capped her famous pen. 

“Well, I should hope it does.” His mother grumbled, “Given that if Barrow goes to trial it will bring great scandal onto our house.” 

“But even for you, this is a little extreme.” Robert said, for he’d never known his mother to get so hands-on when it came to the law. She preferred to stay as far away from a courthouse as she could possibly imagine, no doubt finding the idea of going to court to be very ‘middle class’. 

“I cannot imagine what you are implying to, dear.” Was his mother’s smooth reply, giving him a rather snooty look in her mint green day dress. She had the ability to look like royalty even when it was obvious that she was not. She might be dripping with diamonds right now, but for the way she held herself in her chair- she might as well have been. 

“You’re trying to get Barrow out of jail by harassing his judge-“ Robert tried to begin, but his mother cut him off, turning irritably in her swivel chair to glare at him reproachfully. 

“Harassing-“ She blustered over the word with a scoff, “What do you think I am, a Penny Dreadful?” 

“I should imagine you wouldn’t have to try very hard.” Isobel spoke up from the couch where she sat next to Lord Merton who was drumming his fingers upon his thighs in a nervous habit. 

Cora gave Isobel a rather sympathetic smile, but his mother certainly did not appreciate the label. 

“I feel so incredibly guilty about all of this.” Lord Merton admitted, unable to stop himself. If possible, his mother seemed more annoyed by Lord Merton than by Robert. 

“Well try and alleviate that guilt with Lord Hewart.” She said. 

“So what do you have on this Lord Hewart?” Isobel asked, her tone crisp and staunch, “Attempted treason? Highway robbery? Murder most foul?” 

“I should hope I don’t know what you mean.” His mother said. Isobel refused to be put off the scent. 

“I mean to say, how are you going to trap him?” 

“Oh for heaven’s sake.” His mother grumbled, “Must everything I do be evil in your eyes?” 

Isobel tilted her head to the left, pondering that question quite seriously. “Well, not everything.” She concluded after slight debate. 

His mother looked ready to clock Isobel in the chin with the head of her ivory cane. 

Mercifully, any wigs to be thrown on the green were avoided by the door to the hallway opening once more so that Spratt could step inside with their fifth and final visitor. He was a tall man, with a heavy square jaw and rounded nose so that he looked slightly young despite being close to sixty. Lord Hewart was a staunch man, with a hard stare and a firmly set chin. He looked like a cannon ball wouldn’t be able to knock him over, and tipped his head in good breeding to the Dowager first before addressing the rest of the room. 

“Lord Hewart, M’lady.” Spratt said, before stepping out and gently closing the door. 

“Lady Grantham.” Lord Hewart said. “Lord Merton, Lord Grantham-“ He tipped his head to all of them in turn. Robert smiled, sensing that this man could walk both sides of the line when it came to the law. 

“Oh, Gordon!” His mother said, as if the pair of them were old school chums. “I’m so terribly glad I caught you away from home. Are you famished?” 

“Terribly, I confess.’ Lord Hewart said, which didn’t surprise Robert as it looked like the man could swallow a cow whole and keep going. 

“A healthy Englishman.” His mother remarked, tittering 

 

When it came to dining, his mother preferred to keep things classic and traditional, with hydrangeas crowning the table and fine Wedgeworth silver holding each dish in the dining room. Downton Abbey was practically modern compared to the Dower House, simply because of the decoration and color scheme. Pale blues, ivory whites, soft creams and beiges. As they sat down around the table, each of them was served an initial course of oysters and hors d’oeuvres, followed by a second course of cream of barley. Talk was light and dignified, the sort that Robert had known to be a staple in his youth when Irish radical chauffeurs and race car drivers had not graced his dining room table. By the time they were on the third course of poached salmon with mousseline sauce and cucumbers, Robert had almost forgotten why they were there. 

Almost. 

As Spratt and his two maids came about the table, taking on the fourth course of filets mignon lili and vegetable marrow farci, the Dowager turned to more personal talk. 

“Now you must tell me,” She said, hands perched delicately on either side of her china plate, “How are dear Katharine and Hugh?” 

“Katharine is well.” Lord Hewart said, dabbing at his lips lightly with his silk napkin. “She’s to be married- we’re quite pleased with the match. Hugh on the other hand is content to run around and drive me mad.” 

“Well-“ The Dowager tittered, smiling pleasantly at both Robert and Lord Merton as if either of them had good experience with sons, “What use is a son to his father if he doesn’t rattle him a bit?” 

“Mine have certainly rattled me.” Lord Merton said gloomily into his vegetable marrow farci. Poor man. Isobel patted his hand delicately atop the table. 

“Yes, I heard tell in Leeds of the legal discharge in your family.” Lord Hewart admitted, the first acknowledgement to his legal profession as magistrate judge, “It’s been quite saddening among inner circles. I’m sorry you’ve had such a falling out.” 

“Yes.” Lord Merton’s voice turned tight, his gaze far away as if looking directly into his past, “It’s… caused much grief.” 

“It’s always sad when a house is upset.” The Dowager said, her fingers lightly grazing the handle of her silver dinner fork. “Particularly a house as old as Lord Merton’s, but for a mail to be jailed wrongly under it too-“ 

“Lord Gray is in jail?” Lord Hewart demanded, agog. 

“Oh no.’ The Dowager tittered. Next to Robert, Cora slowly took his hand in his lap, squeezing his fingers tightly. He could feel her pulse catching up in her wrist. It seemed she’d realized the game was on, too. “No, I don’t think they could catch him he’s as slippery as a bar of soap.” She gave Lord Hewart a small smile, “Our butler is in jail, Mr. Barrow.” 

Lord Hewart raised a bushy eyebrow. 

“Lord Gray believes that Mr. Barrow somehow had a hand in his undoing with his fortune- which isn’t too uncommon. Butlers can be quite chatty you know. But this time it actually was Larry’s doing, I can assure you.” She admitted, though Spratt was stiffening at his serving post. Across the table, the two maids holding the awaiting fifth course were gaping. Spratt gave them a sharp look and they immediately closed their mouths tight. 

“Yes.” Lord Merton said, “He’s quite vicious. He gets it from his late mother.” 

Lord Hewart paused in his eating, crossing his arms over his chest as if doing some serious thinking. No doubt he was, his cunning and clever mind probably churning together as he considered why it was that he was sitting in the dining room of a woman he’d probably only met twice in his life while her son’s butler was wrongly in jail. 

“Where is Mr. Barrow is jail?” Lord Hewart asked. 

“Why-“ The Dowager turned to Robert at this, as if she herself hadn’t already been told three times. He wondered why she didn’t just tell him herself, “Where is Barrow jailed?” 

“HMP Wakefield.” Robert admitted. The fifth course was long overdue now, but neither of the maids seemed willing to move. They were glued to their spots, ogling the dining table like they might a play or a nickelodeon. 

Lord Hewart’s eyebrows were now heavily furrowed as he gingerly rubbed the tip of his finger around the rim of his red wine glass. He took a healthy sip, then one more just for flavor. 

“You know, the thing about justice, not only must it be done but it must be seen to be done.” The Dowager said, which made no sense to Robert. Where on earth had she pulled that sentence out of. But Lord Hewart’s eyes flashed at this, and he looked around at the woman as if startled by her command. Could it be he’d said it himself, once? “Poor Barrow, in the cold-“ The Dowager sighed, looking out her dinging window where the snow was still falling, “I can’t imagine how they’re keeping warm in those jail cells with this late snow, but it’s no matter. Servants must fend for themselves.” 

“Must they?” Lord Hewart glowered, taking another sip of wine so that his glass was now empty. Spratt filled it at once, “I was unaware.” 

“Oh do forgive me, Lord Hewart.” The Dowager tutted, “I know you’re of the liberal mind.” 

“Wakefield-“ Lord Hewart was talking aloud to himself now, addressing Robert more than the Dowager. “that doesn’t make any sense. Why on earth would they put a simple petty crime like bribery in Wakefield. That’s the Monster Prison- only high profile, high risk sex offenders and murderers are held there.” 

Robert doubted the word ‘sex’ had ever been uttered in the Dowager’s dining room. 

Spratt had had enough. He gestured behind Lord Hewart’s back for both the maids to abandon their posts. One looked downright put out at being denied the show, but Spratt’s glare was so ominous that both had no choice but to flee or face being set ablaze where they stood. Spratt shut the door behind their retreating backs, taking over the serving of the fifth course himself as he picked up the fourth course and started coming around with the roast duck. Normally the apple sauce would be quick to follow, but without two maids, Spratt would be forced to make both rounds himself. 

“Well, that’s the problem.” Robert admitted. Now that the maids were out of the room, what was the harm in delivering all the damning details. “Larry Gray decided to tell the police that Barrow is… artistic.” 

Lord Hewart did not dabble in denial, “A homosexual.” 

“Correct.” Robert said. 

“Is he?” Lord Hewart asked. 

“Oh, heavens no.” The Dowager butted in with a light laugh as if this were all just small gossip instead of a man’s life at stake, “Poor man. He’s just a butler.” 

Despite Spratt bringing around both roasted duck and sauce, Lord Hewart took no notice of either on his plate. He instead glared dully at the Dowager, dining only on his refilled glass of red wine. “Is that why I’m here, by any chance?” 

“Don’t be ridiculous, dear.” the Dowager lied, “What happens to one butler hardly changes the course of English history. No, the reason why you are here is because I saw you passing through and wanted to catch up.” 

Robert had to wonder if he’d really been ‘passing through’ at all, and if his mother had somehow wrangled that too. God only knows if they gave her enough leg room she could be running the country in a years time. 

Lord Hewart wasn’t swallowing it. He let out the tiniest sigh, taking another sip of red wine so that Spratt was forced to make another round with the decanter. 

“Don’t go too far.” Lord Hewart joked to him darkly before turning back to Robert. “Is he being represented?” 

“By my man, Murray.” Robert said. 

“When is his trial?” Hewart asked. 

“They haven’t even given us a date yet. It’s like he’s being swallowed by the system.” Robert said, slightly bitter about the whole thing. 

Lord Hewart finished off his third glass of red wine; Spratt dutifully poured another. God only knows the man could drink. “Have Murray contact my office in Leeds.” Lord Hewart said. 

Robert’s heart all but skipped a beat. Could it be they had a shot now? Or at least wiggle room to start? 

“… He’s innocent.” Robert said, feeling it almost impertinent that Lord Hewart knew. “And he’s suffering.” 

“Much like you when your ex wife spread all those horrible rumors about your supposed affair in Brussex.” The Dowager cut in. Lord Hewart froze, his eyes wide behind his nearly finished red wine glass. He swallowed the whole thing in one shot, looking like he’d rather it had been lye. 

“…Did you manage to squash those rumors?” The Dowager added, just for injury. 

“They persist.” Was all Lord Hewart said. 

“Imagine what one good word would do.” The Dowager sighed, “Pity… pity…”   
But was there an ounce of pity in her English bred heart? Robert just didn’t know. 

Lord Hewart touched his brow.   
Spratt made to fill his wine glass once again- Lord Hewart threw out a hand to stop him.

_Set, game, and match._

~*~

Murray received a call from Lord Grantham that very evening, and the next morning had called Hewart’s office in Leeds. As magistrate judge, his office was on the top floor of the magistrate courts which sat at 26 Westgate just south of the city proper. Murray felt rather nervous as he scaled the high steps, kicking snow from the bottom of his leather shoes and giving his coat and hat to a maid at the top of the stairs where glass and fine wood cut off the rest of the polished marble court system from high brow offices. Up here there were only highly ranked police officers, CEO’s of large prisons and judges in their personal rooms. The magistrate judge, one Lord Gordon Hewart, sat at the far end of the hall. Murray was shown in by Hewart’s secretary, a small waif of a girl with brown bobbed hair and smart clicking heels that led him down the hall to knock upon the glass. 

“Enter!” Judge Hewart commanded from beyond. She opened the door and obeyed him at once. 

“Judge Hewart.” Murray greeted the man, tipping his head as the secretary shut the door behind him, “Thank you for agreeing to see me on such short notice.” 

“Mr Murray. Please sit down.” Judge Hewart looked rather stern behind his massive polished desk, littered with papers, stamps, a gavel for show and a fine Tiffany lamp surely straight from New York City. Around him were framed Newspapers, inciting headlines from when he’d been sworn into office or presided over important cases. There were also photographs of his family, in particular a rather large and prominent photo of a young woman with curled hair smiling in a coming out dress; she wore high white feathers to display her title. 

Murray took the offered leather seat, his briefcase quick to be opened as he pulled out his compiled case files for Thomas Barrow. 

“Do you have your case ready?” Judge Hewart asked. 

“I do.” Murray offered over the documents at once. Judge Hewart took them in a meaty hand to observe them under the light of his fine lamp. “One, Thomas Barrow, accused of attempted self-murder.” 

“What?” Judge Hewart did a double take, glancing up from Barrow’s mugshot (a rather poor photo with the bearer being miserable and tear-streaked). He was taken aback, “I thought it was for supposed homosexuality?” 

“No, sir.” Murray wondered who had told him that? As far as Lord Grantham had conveyed, the subject had been ‘broached lightly’ during a lunch at the Dowager’s. 

Hewart looked back down at the papers, flipping through Murray’s notes, “You’ll see that he was taken in on February 15th, and admitted in questioning to the initial act occurring last July. It was not, however, due to insanity. We had a doctor confirm this- a one Dr. Richard Clarkson of Downton county has gone before the Board of Governors for Wakefield, and has stated Mr. Barrow’s case. He’s been found sane.” 

“So.” Judge Hewart drummed his fingers idly upon his desk, flipping through page after page of notes and forms. “No Briarcliffe, then.” 

“No Briarcliffe indeed, which I can assure you Mr. Barrow is most grateful for.” 

“If he’s not insane then why did he cut himself?” Hewart asked, pausing reproachfully as he noticed photographs of Barrow’s arms which had been taken after booking. The black and white photograph left nothing to question, thick white lines at the wrists as deep as bone followed by dark gray marks hacking left and right all the way up to the elbow. 

“Job stress.” Murray explained, “He was losing his position and couldn’t find a way forward. It was done in a moment of… temporary confusion. Nothing more.” 

“Mmm. I see.” Hewart rubbed his meaty fingers together, flipping through more pages till he reached the very last. “No prior assaults?” 

“None.” Murray said, “There was a small scuffle in 1919 but it turned out the complainant was drunk.” 

“So he isn’t a homosexual?” Hewart asked. 

“Not per say.” Murray was careful with his wording, quite aware a poorly placed noun could result in a longer sentence for his client. 

But Hewart did not dabble in the gray, and glared dully at Murray from behind his desk, “Either he is or he isn’t.” 

“I’ve never seen definitive proof.” 

“Yes but how far would I have to look to find it, that’s the question.” 

Murray shifted uncomfortably in his chair, unsure of how best to word what had to be worded. “… Not far.” He finally said, hoping that would suffice. 

“Mm.” Judge Hewart scratched his chin, flipping back and forth between photo’s of Barrow’s mugshot and his scarred arms. “Well, as you know I am a liberal.” 

For which Murray was undyingly grateful at this point. 

“I also believe that justice must seen to be done, and I don’t like to see this.” Hewart kept drumming his fingers on the desk. “Lord Gray has made quite a bit of trouble for this man. Why?” 

Well that was the question of the year, wasn’t it? Even Murray didn’t fully understand, having been given a rather watered down version of the story himself. He could, however, make connections: “Lord Gray took offense to Mr. Branson, Lord Grantham’s son-in-law who is quite close to Mr. Barrow.” 

“I see.” A helpless victim in a power struggle between two higher men, “Poor man. What sentence has he been given- oh!” It seemed Judge Hewart had already found the detail on the page, “Three years? That’s rather tedious.” 

“Particularly for a man who is neither insane nor a criminal.” Murray added, hoping he could procure a lighter sentence for his client. 

“Service to King and Country, honorably wounded, awards for bravery in battle and medical prestige on the field.” Judge Hewart rattled off the titles as he scanned Barrow’s history profile, “Sixteen years loyal service to a well known Lord? No prior complaints?” He glanced up at Murray, “This is not the kind of man I like to see in jail.” 

“Would you be willing to reduce his sentence?” Murray asked, hopefully, “To keep him away from public trial? Lord Grantham is most eager that this never reaches the papers for very obvious reasons.” 

“Yes, because the minute it does, the denounced Gray heir will jump on it.” 

“Quite.” 

“And Mr. Barrow will never see the light of day again.” 

“So you see our predicament.” 

Judge Hewart took this moment to light a cigarette from a silver flask, offering another to Murray. “Cigarette?” 

“Please.” He accepted it, along with the light when Judge Hewart passed one over as well- ivory holding, a clear heirloom. “Thank you.” 

Judge Hewart let out a long thin stream of smoke from both fat nostrils, “I cannot deny that there is slight negligence at stake here.” Judge Hewart sat both cigarette container and lighter aside, “He should never have attempted to take his life. Life is precious, God’s gift. And it damages his chances at salvation which are already tense given his curious nature.” He paused, smoking some more before speaking again, “Three years, however, is too much. It’s over kill. My prisons are already full to the bursting, particularly Wakefield. He should never have been put there in the first place- and in solitary?” He added, flipping back to the offending page in Murray’s documents. “It makes no sense. I have a feeling money swapped hands.” He closed Barrow’s file at this, “He should have gone to York County Prison. Not to Wakefield.” 

“We agree.” Murray said. 

“I tell you what.” Judge Hewart glanced over his shoulder to a calendar that hung on the wall. For some odd reason, March 7th had a red star next to it. “He was officially booked and processed into Wakefield on the 16th of February…” He looked back at the booking file, “We’re already in March. Why not make his sentence… to March 16th. A solid month.” 

“That is incredibly generous.” Murray was flabbergasted, amazed that Judge Hewart had gone so low. Surely that could not be all? 

“Well he has to serve something, and it might as well be squared.” Judge Hewart finished his cigarette, stubbing it out in a crystal tray by his Tiffany lamp, “But likewise, I have to admit that Barrow needs to pay a fine to society.” He paused, glancing once more at his file, then at Murray, “Given the nature of his act… Forty-no-“ He changed his mind, “Fifty pounds.” 

Mr. Murray opened his briefcase, fetching a pen and pad to scribble the notice. Judge Hewart wrote the same upon the last page of Barrow’s file, marking a blank space where Murray had left room for future notes. “

“I’ll let him have a taste of fresh air, then he can come back here to Leeds and give his statement in private. We’ll keep the final sentencing away from the bench. I can bang my gavel in here just as easily as I can bang it out there. Whatever we do, it has to be done in private.” 

“Fifty pounds, a private hearing, and a release in two weeks? I will happily convey the news.” Murray felt like he’d been crowned by this point, certain that his hard work would be reflected in his final pay stub.

“I suppose you’re curious about why I’m being so generous.” Hewart lit up yet another cigarette. Murray found himself offered yet another one, but declined it with a silent wave of the hand. 

Judge Hewart puffed in silence for a moment, then pointed to the date starred in red on his hanging wall calendar. “That is why.” 

Murray leaned in, eager to hear more.

~*~

When Murray had rung with an urgent message for Lord Grantham, Elsie had imagined that it was the worst. Her feeble sleep last night had done nothing to alleviate her nerves, and she’d spent the entire day on pins and needles as Baxter took over her old position and the maids were run ragged with washing. She’d watched with fear as Charles had met Murray at the door only to let him in and take him to the library where the family stood waiting. Elsie could not enter with him, but had waited at the door frightened with her ear pressed to the crack. She’d almost fallen when it had opened unexpectedly to reveal Charles on the other side, looking quite unsurprised to find her there. 

He wore a dim smile that she did not like nor register as genial. 

“Mr. Murray wants you to bear witness to his findings.” Charles explained.   
Elsie’s heart skipped a beat. 

In she went into the living room, unsure of what to expect and feeling rather frail. Charles shut the door again, and Elsie found herself amid the family with Tom upon the couch next to Lady Mary and Mr. Talbot. He was the worst off of the all, pale and withdrawn. His cheeks were beginning to sink in and there were deep shadows underneath his eyes. He, like Elsie, surely had not slept well since Thomas’ arrest. 

She could not help but feel terribly sorry for the man as she watched Lord Grantham pace the floor. How easy it was for her to see that the whole family had been shaken up. Half of them wouldn’t have cared as much about Thomas had it not been for the grotesque if recent fight between Tom and Lady Mary. Tom’s love for Thomas had become something of a legend now, to where none could associate one without thinking of the other. So though it was only Thomas locked up, it was almost like both Tom and Thomas were in prison. 

Mr. Murray looked frantic to speak, sweating profusely as he dabbed repeatedly at his brow with a handkerchief. It was as if he’d run all the way from the train station to get here. 

“I apologizing for interrupting your work,” Mr Murray addressed both Elsie and Charles at this point. “But I’ve heard back from Lord Hewart earlier today, on news for Mr. Barrow’s case, and I wanted you all to know the updated details as soon as I’d received them.” 

“And?” Lord Grantham demanded at once, looking quite eager. 

At first, Elsie feared the worst, thinking that some part of their plan had gone awry. But then Mr. Murray began to smile. Smile like a man able to lick the cream without capture. 

“Dr. Clarkson’s case against Mr. Barrow’s supposed insanity and the Dowager’s encouragements have convinced Lord Hewart to amend Mr. Barrow’s case. He will not be institutionalized.” 

Lady Mary and Tom both gave a breath of relief at this, as Tom repeatedly rubbed at his watering nose and Lady Mary grew more relaxed. Elsie still felt exhausted though and wondered why. Surely she should be delighted to know that Thomas would not face the horrors of Briarcliffe? 

“Thank god.” Lady Mary muttered, but Mr. Murray was beginning to shake his head again. 

“I haven’t finished, M’lady.” Mr. Murray said, “There’s more.” 

Once again, the room drew quiet as Tom sat up a little straighter on the couch. 

“I’ve spoken with Lord Hewart, and the Board of Governors for HMP Wakefield.” Mr. Murray seemed quite smug as he continued on, “I have successfully convinced Lord Hewart to reduce Mr. Barrow’s sentence from three years to one month, at the end of which he will pay fifty pounds be but freed-“ 

A month- a month! 

The rest of his sentence was swallowed up in a wild foray of garbling, mostly from Tom, who leapt up off the sofa only to be pushed back down by Mr. Talbot who clearly didn’t need any more excitement. Tom was hysterical, wild and on the verge of tears as he beamed and twisted left and right to first clasp hands with Lady Mary, then with Mr. Talbot, both of whom looked mighty pleased for him. 

Elsie felt incredibly light headed, as if she’d lost all feeling in her feet and legs. 

“I have not finished!” Mr. Murray tried to say, but it was quite overrun by Tom shouting like a child. 

“How can there be more!?” Tom demanded, blubbering but gleeful. Lady Mary held him by the arms, trying to coax him into silence. 

“Apparently there is… a luncheon in London for the high society next week on March 7th.” Mr. Murray looked quite humored at this point, “I know nothing about it save that Lord Hewart’s ex wife will be there, now along with the Dowager Countess.” Mr. Murray shook his head to say, “And so Lord Hewart has graciously offered his favor to the Dowager by reducing Mr. Barrow’s sentence from April 1st to a month after his initial arrest date. Mr. Barrow will be released on March 16th, officially, so he had little more than two weeks left. What’s more, Lord Hewart is eager for his hearing to stay private; we cannot fully escape the arm of the law but we can at least avoid its claws. Mr. Barrow will have his final sentencing in Lord Hewart’s office, but Lord Hewart is perfectly content with a fine-“ 

Elsie swayed on the spot, overwhelmed. She felt Charles’ arm support her about the shoulders, keeping her upright. 

“Steady girl…”His voice murmured in her ear above Tom’s shrieking for God and glory, “Steady.” 

“Murray, you are a genius.” Lord Grantham praised, quite humored at the way Tom was ready to climb on top of the couch. After weeks of Tom being so blue and quiet that he could have been mistaken for a corpse, this wild foray of activity was much appreciated. 

“Truly, I’m not.” Mr. Murray was chuffed to receive his Lordship’s blessing even as Tom was close to rolling on the carpet. Tiaa was bounding about at his feet, wildly delighted by the freshly born excitement. “The real work came from the Dowager. Lord Hewart conveyed to me that she was concerned Mr. Barrow would spill the family secrets while in prison-“ but at this, Tom began to laugh hysterically, all but clutching his hair and sides as Lady Mary tried to keep him still. 

“Spill the- spill the-“ Tom giggled, unable to get the rest out for hilarity of it all. Poor Tom, who up until a minute ago had thought the whole world upon his shoulders. 

“Perhaps Tom should take a lie down-“ Lady Mary said what they were all thinking. But Tom would not be moved from the library, now adamant if not voracious to get his questions out to Mr. Murray who was slightly startled but happy to reply. 

“Is there any way we can get him out sooner?” Tom demanded, eyes popping, “Today?!” 

“No.” Mr Murray said, slightly deflating Tom’s newly-born delight. “The only way we could do that would be if someone were to assume responsibility for his welfare- a guardian par example or a hospital. That’s what we’re trying to avoid, Mr. Branson. Two weeks is much better than three years, I’m sure you’ll agree-“ 

But Elsie once again found herself an outsider on the conversation as she tried to wrap her head around the concepts being flung before her. A lifetime in service had shown her glimpses of the penal system but never an up close look before. She supposed Mr. Bates’ unfair incarceration had come close, but this seemed so much more raw. So much more real. Mr. Bates had been Anna’s battle. Thomas was hers. 

“You… mean to say-“ Elsie spoke up, causing slight silence in the room as even Tom allowed her the right to speak, “A guardian? I don’t understand- Are you speaking of his parents?” 

“Not exactly.” Mr. Murray explained, “It’s not so much a matter of parents as it is an actual guardian. In the case of someone who has been incarcerated over the matter of mental instability such as attempted self-murder, often their sentence can be removed if an adoption of welfare is taken. It’s a rare process, and it usually merely results in private institutionalization by the families recommendation-“ 

Once again, Elsie could not help but cling to certain words and flee from others, unable to make the connections with the reality around her. Her calves felt numb, “Adoption?” 

“Yes.” 

“…I think I-“ _Want to sit down_ , Was Elsie’s full thought.   
Unfortunately, it never got out. 

“Elsie?” Charles sensed imminent danger, but it would do him no good. Her body was officially put-out with her nonsense, and was ready to take its control by full force. 

“I think- Charles-“ Elsie stuttered, black spots bursting before her vision.   
She heard the frightened shriek of Lady Mary, and then absolutely nothing came to her. 

 

 

 

  
The world sort of slid by her for a moment, like a glass plate over a captured Nickelodeon. Then the gray pulled back, a bit like a mist over a sea and Elsie realized several things had changed for the better. 

For one she was off her feet, for two she felt oddly rested. There was a cool towel upon her head, and a warm blanket cast over her lap as she opened her eyes to see she was in the pink room. A guest bedroom on the Eastern wing of the gallery usually kept open for unmarried female guests. It wasn’t too far away from the nursery. The sun was still shining through the window, so not much time had passed, and Elsie found that she was dressed in nothing more than her under slip and stockings with her shoes and outer dress removed. Even her hair had been let down, her auburn and gray braid spilling over her shoulder in a long coiling rope. Dr. Clarkson was there, digging through his bag for something or the other. He didn’t look too pressed. Charles was also there, attentive and loving as he sat on the edge of the bed and stroked Elsie’s hand. She felt her pulse flutter in her puffed veins where his fingers caressed her own.   
It seemed she’d fainted. What a scandal. 

“A little too much excitement, I fear.” Dr. Clarkson said, removing his stethoscope and coming back around the bed to listen for Elsie’s pulse at her neck and breast. He listened before nodding and pulling away, content with what he heard. Clearly her heart rate had returned to normal. 

“Oh…” Elsie groaned, bringing the hand Charles was not holding to her temple to feel at a knot that was forming there, “I’ve been such a bother.” 

“Nonsense.” Dr. Clarkson said, “I’m happy to help.” 

“Dr. Clarkson-“ Elsie was suddenly struck by a wave of gratitude towards the man. Mr. Murray’s words were drifting back to her, reminding her that Dr. Clarkson’s crafty appeal to the Board of Governors for HMP Wakefield had given Thomas the wiggle room to escape sure sentence to Briarcliffe. Had it not been for him… “You convinced the board of governors Thomas wasn’t insane.” 

“It wasn’t a bother.” He said with a faint smile, “I want you to stay in bed for the rest of the day, and take it easy. Yes? No stress. No emotional upheaval.” 

A difficult task to do after a day like today, but Elsie would try. To be honest after a life of being up on her feet all the time, Elsie didn’t know how to rest. She’d never taken a nap in her entire existence; now didn’t seem to be a good time to start. 

Still, Elsie knew when to give up the fight. She lay still upon the guest bed as Dr. Clarkson packed his bag and tipped his head to Charles. 

“Thank you for helping us, Dr. Clarkson.” Elsie said before he could leave, “Truly. I’ll never forget your kindness.” 

“Mrs. Carson, I’m happy to help you.” Dr. Clarkson didn’t seem to realize she was talking about Thomas and not herself. “You’re a good woman and your kindness has touched many lives. I only aim to do the same. Rest up.” He patted her knee and left, closing the door softly behind him. 

Charles looked pleased but tired at the same time, and continued stroking her hand to sooth her. 

“How are you feeling?” He asked, softly. 

“…. Relieved.” Elsie thought of all the fear and she’d experienced,at the concept of Thomas in prison endlessly. now there was a stop in sight; two weeks. Easy to manage. Her life was spent working around a clock. now the clock just had to shift fourteen times. Fourteen rotations, fourteen days… and then happiness. 

Charles leaned in, and placed the softest kiss upon her brow close to where a knot was forming. 

Though at first she’d imagined it would be difficult to nap, Elsie was so exhausted after not having slept properly that she easily fell back asleep and stayed that way for a good remainder of the day. After night had fallen, when the family had taken its dinner and the servant’s were to do the same, Elsie was brought a tray by Anna who even put a little vase with flowers on the side. Charles left the downstairs in Mrs. Patmore’s charge (far from a risky move) to take his dinner with Elsie in the pink room. When she’d eaten, she’d felt slightly recovered, and had consented to redress (though her hair would have to remain unbound) so that they might leave for their own cottage. It was with great generosity that Lord Grantham gave them passage home via the wagonette so that Elsie might not have to walk so far. The ride home served only to make her feel drowsy again as if she had not slept all day, and when they were finally at home and in their bedroom Elsie was practically exhausted. She lay quiet and without issue as Charles undressed and made for his even toilette. After a lifetime of living alone in the wee hours, Elsie always found it interesting to watch a man un-do himself (particularly a man so well kept as Charles Carson). He worked in routine, never an item out of place. He hung up his livery, tended to his shoes, undid his suspenders and trousers, only to put on his pajamas and climb into bed after washing his face and teeth. 

And as he did all these things, Elsie could not help but wonder what her life would have been like if she’d gone another way. Been married to him earlier, young enough to where they could have had children. 

Despite the silliness of it all, she saw the image of her child as Thomas- or rather what she imagined Thomas had been like as a toddler. Bumbling about in britches she might have sewn him, babbling nonsensically as she’d bathed him and brushed his hair. Charles would have worked hard as a Butler, Elsie would have devoted her time in between to Thomas’ care. She would have delighted in sitting down to a meal with her little family. Maybe urging Thomas to eat all his peas, not just one or two spoonfuls, while clasping Charles’ hand atop the table lovingly. 

As the years had passed, and she’d watched more and more of her hair turn gray, Elsie had understood that such a life would never be hers. It had hurt for a while (a long while if she were honest) but she’d learned to accept it as best she could have. Every time a woman upstairs had gotten married or had a baby, Elsie had allowed one tiny part of herself to wonder ‘that could have been me’ and when she’d married Charles she’d felt incredibly blessed. As if God had reached down from heaven and put her bouquet in her hand. 

But just today, a thought had hit Elsie. An odd thought, rather… but still a valid thought. It had filled her brain, made her faint, and now as she lay next to Charles in bed she wished she tell him everything. 

But she feared what he might say. 

Charles reached over and turned off their bedside light, exhausted, and after letting out a large breath rolled over in bed so that they were facing one another in the dark. He brought a hand out to cup her waist, and Elsie felt herself instinctively pool against his side. He stroked her hair, her face, and lay quiet no doubt about to fall asleep after a hard day’s work. Elsie could feel his fingers trembling lightly, a sign of his shakes. 

“Charles” She whispered in the dark. 

“Hmm?” He did not move, listening intently. 

“… I want to talk to you about something important.” 

“Yes?” He sounded the slightest bit worried now, as if even nearly a year after their marriage Elsie might turn about face and decide she couldn’t live with him anymore. 

“I…” But how to word this, “I want to-“ still she felt unsure.   
Elsie reached up in the dark and cupped Charles’ face feeling the slightly bristled skin. He would have to shake tomorrow morning before heading back to the abbey. Even amid the gloom Elsie saw Charles open his eyes, peering out at her cautiously. 

“Charles,” She said, “Do you love me?” 

“With all my heart.” He said, and the simplicity of his truth made her fears begin to melt. 

“Do you think me mad, at times?” Elsie thought of the time she’d been eager to try out a toaster and Charles had come running with a sand bucket. 

“Certainly not.” He was starting to sound a bit like the Charles she knew in the daytime, “Why would I?” 

“Oh Charles.” He would certainly think her mad once he knew what lay in her heart. “I… I have this ache in my soul. Our lives have been devoted to the care of another family, but I want to care for my own family now. I want to have a husband and children, I want to have my own home to love…” Charles lay silent but Elsie knew he was listening. “We’re too old to have our own children, but I desperately want to-“ 

Want to what? Have a baby? What a fool she sounded like. 

“Oh.” She rolled away so that his hand suddenly slipped to her stomach. “I must sound like a fool.” 

But Charles wasn’t swayed. He scooted up close to her again, holding her tight to his side even though she was no longer facing him. 

“Elsie, you’ve never been a fool a day in your life.” He said in her ear, “Save the day you married me.” 

Elsie could not help but grin, “You make it sound like it was a bad decision.” 

“Suppose it was?” Charles teased. 

“No.” She didn’t even consider it a real concept at this point. She’d been born to marry Charles. Just as Anna had been born to marry Mr. Bates. “I think not.” 

Charles smiled into her hair, and she reached up to touch his arms about her stomach. His arm muscles were bulging, incredibly large compared to her own. She wondered if anyone else knew how strong he was? 

“Tell me what’s troubling you, pet.” He whispered into her ear. So it seemed she wasn’t getting off the hook just because she’d fallen silent again. 

“… I want to adopt Thomas.” She finally admitted.   
Charles lay absolutely silent. 

Then, he sat up, so that he could lean over Elsie in the dark and stare down on her from above. She met his eyes and found them intense but not angry or confused. 

“…Elsie.” He finally said, “That is a very serious decision.” 

“Do you think me silly for it?” She wondered. 

“No.” He shook his head slowly, “But I want to think on it. Will you allow me time?”   
Elsie nodded, amazed that he’d even think on it at all. Could it be that she’d not been alone in her thoughts. 

He leaned down and kissed her softly upon her brow, “Sleep dove.” He whispered, “He’ll be home either way by the sixteenth.” 

And Elsie made sure to mark the date the next day on their hanging calendar. 

~*~

Thomas found himself losing track of days, the more he stayed in solitary. He was starting to have bizarre thoughts, that a man normally wouldn’t have if he were of a right mind. The more company he kept with Butterbean, the more he imagined the mouse could actually understand his thoughts and talk to him. He sat upon his bed, with Butterbean resting on his chest, and found himself in an intense staring war with a harvest mouse. 

_I will never blink_ , Butterbean seemed to be teasing him. Thomas narrowed his eyes, furrowing his brow. 

And blinked. 

“Gye.” Thomas grumbled, swiping at his eyes. His chin was peppery with stubble again, growing into a thick black beard. He found himself wishing desperately he could see his reflection. Water thinly pooled upon his floor was barely enough to call a mirror, but Thomas could tell that there wasn’t any gray in his beard. He could remember that his father had had a beard though he’d never possessed a mustache. His chin had always been sharply cloaked in black; now that Thomas was the same, he was almost certain he could pass as his father’s twin. 

The last time Thomas had left his cell, he’d been given the opportunity to prove himself sane with Dr. Clarkson. Thomas wondered what the hell had become of that venture, and whether or not he was going to stay in solitary if he was found stable. Butterbean would be in danger in a shared cell, as would Thomas. He’d either find himself in a cell with a murderer or a rapist. 

Honest to god, he’d prefer the murderer. The idea of sharing sleeping quarters with someone as sick as a rapist made him want to vomit. 

There were footsteps outside his door. 

Thomas had about two seconds to snatch Butterbean from his chest and stuff him unceremoniously into his pillow (squeaking all the way) before his cell door began to open. He leapt off his bed, unsure of who would be on the other side, and grimaced when the door open to reveal Barsette. 

Oh goody. 

“Hands on the wall.” Barsette spoke with clear authority, but unlike Fletcher there was no honor in his voice. He was a snake in the gras, willing to bite anyone who got in his way. 

Thomas could remember having much the same mindset, and knew that Barsette was a dangerous man. 

He turned, bitter, and put his hands up on the wall. Barsette walked into the cell- swaggered, more like, and Thomas stiffened as he felt an ominous touch of round metal to the back of his head. 

“…There a reason you’re pointing your gun at me?” Thomas whispered, his voice dry and tight from anxiety. 

“… Cause I can.” Was Barsette’s drawling reply.   
Thomas’ heart began pounding in his chest. 

Barsette twisted the gun so that the barrel rotated against his skull. Thomas closed his eyes, trying to take breaths as slowly as possible. 

He tried to reason himself that if Barsette were to shoot him now, that he would not die in vain. That he had loved, and lived. Maybe not well, but at least to some amount. There were some who weren’t so lucky. He should count his blessings. 

He found himself thinking of the servant’s hall in Downton Abbey. Of everyone he knew sitting around it eating dinner after a hard days work.   
Thomas took another steady breath, his heart still pounding- 

Barsette yanked the gun back, suddenly pressing Thomas’ face hard into the wall so that Thomas almost bit his cheek as he lazily handcuffed Thomas’ vambraces. 

Barsette pulled him off the wall and drug him to the door of his cell. Thomas knew for a fact that talking back would be extremely unwise, that Barsette was liable to break his face open without a moment’s hesitation. Thomas had courted dangerous men before; he’d just never been handcuffed by them. Until these handcuffs came off, Thomas was in danger and knew to keep his head low. 

“Lovely day today.” Barsette said sarcastically, gesturing up at the sky. 

Thomas did not reply to him. 

Barsette took him inside Wakefield, and Thomas realized they were going back to the interrogation cells. As they entered, Barsette took him all the way to the back and opened the cell to shove him inside. Thomas carefully stood at the back of the cell, watching as Barsette shut the door to the interrogation room and turned with a casual smile. 

Thomas realized they were absolutely alone, and grimaced as Barsette came up before till they were almost nose to nose. 

“Y’got a visitor coming.” Barsette murmured. “Know who?” 

“No.” Thomas refused to give sass. He had a feeling it would get him shot. 

“Well I do.” Barsette said, with an unnervingly calm smile, “I know lots of things. I run this place. An’ for the right price… I can get you in on the scheme.” 

Thomas did not answer, looking away. 

“… Word on the strip is that you’re a man of a different nature.” Barsette tilted his head to the side. “If you’re found stable they’re puttin’ you in with the big boys. You think a man like you will last long in there- if you’re even a man at all?” 

Once again, Thomas said nothing. He had a feeling the moment he spoke Barsette was going to crack his face in. 

“… I can help you, Barrow.” Barsette said, “An’ you can help me. Fletcher likes you. You can be my little spy… I’d reward you handsomely.” 

“And if I refuse?” Thomas asked, unable to stop himself. Barsette licked his lips, leaning in. Thomas had the sudden fear that Barsette was going to try and kiss him and leaned his head back at once till he was touching bars. 

“I’ll see to it the man whose cell you share.. won’t be nice.” Barsette said. Thomas licked his lips, but did not reply. “Think on it, yeah?” 

But Thomas didn’t have to. He already knew what his answer would be. 

He did not know Fletcher, nor did he want to be in the cell with someone would undoubtably rape or kill him. But he knew the definition of honor now, and he understood what it was to have standing in another’s eyes. To have responsibility towards another. To have morals. 

And he would not break them for a man like Barsette. Not even with vambraces and handcuffs on. 

“Think about it, eh?” Barsette un-cuffed his wrists. Thomas brought them in front and massaged them where skin met metal. 

The only thing Thomas was thinking about was the quickest way to get Barsette’s arse handed to Fletcher. 

Barsette pulled out the interrogation chair, and Thomas sat down knowing it would be futile to keep standing at this point. What he did, he did for his own self preservation. Barsette had the gun, he did not. 

But suddenly Barsette’s hands were upon his shoulders.   
Massaging him. 

Thomas turned, glancing at Barsette’s hand on his left shoulder with mild disgust. 

“I’ve always wondered about your type.” Barsette admitted, “The first time I met a man like you I killed him. Now I feel like I wasted an opportunity. I haven’t had a good lay in a long time. Why don’t you and I amend that? 

Thomas felt like he would be sick. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Thomas said, keeping his voice as calm as possible. 

“Don’t be shy.” Barsette sounded amused. “You and I both know you go for the darker side of life. Let’s put that to good use.” 

“I’m sorry, officer.” Thomas repeated, “I genuinely do not know what you’re talking about.” 

“Alright, play hard to get.” Barsette chuckled; Thomas heard the sound of the the door opening at the end of the hall. He caught sight of Mr. Murray heading up the wing with a familiar looking guard in tow though it wasn’t Fletcher. “I’ll talk to you about this later. Maybe I’ll come visit you in your cell tonight.” 

Thomas shuddered. 

Mr. Murray entered, along with the other police officer. The officer looked heavily displeased to see Barsette, and stood stiffly at the interrogation room door. 

“Hey, Francis.” Barsette drawled. The guard at the door narrowed his eyes at Barsette. “Enjoy your packed lunch today? Did your mum make it for you?” 

“Officer Barsette, if you please.” Mr. Murray cut across, looking quite uncomfortable with the man being there. Mr. Murray took off his hat, sitting down in the chair opposite Thomas and putting his briefcase on the table between them. “Mr. Barrow.” 

“Mr. Murray.” Thomas said. “Do you have news for me?” 

“A great deal, actually.” Murray said with a sharp smile, “Which you will be greatly relieved to hear.” 

“I’m glad for good news.” Thomas said, his ears still burning with Barsette’s insinuation that he would be ‘visiting’ him at night. 

“Dr. Clarkson has found you sane.” Mr. Murray said, Thomas smiled absently. Of course he had, “He went before the board of governors for Wakefield and pleaded your case that you did not deserve asylum. It was granted, and you will not be facing Briarcliffe.” 

Thomas let out a soft breath, greatly relieved. In truth, he’d feared the institution more than any other outcome. 

“What is more, I have worked with your judge to get your sentence reduced.” Mr. Murray said. “He has decided that you have been jailed under unfair terms, and has limited your sentence to a mere month, at the end of which you will pay a fine of fifty pounds for damages to society but be freed.” 

Thomas gasped, shocked.   
He was to be freed within a month?   
Honest to god freed? Could it truly be? 

“What is more, the Dowager Countess knows the judge and was able to convey to him that you have technically already been in jail since February 16th. Your sentence well therefore end on March 16th. You’re near the end Mr. Barrow… You only two more weeks to go.” 

Thomas was staggered. 

Only minutes ago he was facing certain harassment at the hands of Barsette, of being jailed with murderers and rapists who would no doubt have their wicked way with him in the end. His only friends in the world had been a harvest mouse and a very irritable Colonel Lieutenant. Now, Thomas was to be freed and returned home, returned back to Downton Abbey, to Mrs. Hughes, to Tom. 

Tom. 

Thomas suddenly longed with an aching fever for his touch, for his sweetness and protection. He wished Tom were with him in that moment, in that cell, protecting and loving him, caring for him. 

A surge of emotion hit him like a ton of bricks: Longing, fear, misery, and anger at his situation. Thomas had to bury his face momentarily in his hands to hide the tears that burned at his eyes. He’d not wept in weeks, he’d found himself deadening. Now he was alive again, and suddenly realize how horrific his situation was. 

But by god… he was to be freed! Freed! 

“I know you must be relieved.” Mr. Murray said. 

“Mr. Murray-“ Thomas could barely speak, his voice was so thick with emotion. He wiped hastily at his eyes again and again, though it did very little good. His tears would be impossible to hide. “I…” 

Thomas swallowed, trying to steady himself. “Thank you.” He finally said, “Thank you for everything. You’ve saved me. Truly, you have saved me. I don’t know how I will ever be able to express my gratitude to you. For the rest of my life I am in your debt-“ 

Mr. Murray raise a hand with a polite smile, cutting Thomas off. 

“I assure you, I am merely doing my job.” Murray said with the softest bit of dulled humor. “There’s no need to pledge your undying loyalty just yet.” 

But Thomas wasn’t too sure. “Oh…” He fretted, “But I don’t have fifty pounds.” At most he had thirty saved up. Perhaps they would allow him to pay part of it and make monthly installments? 

“I’ll see what I can do.” Mr. Murray said, “Don’t worry about that just now—“ 

“Don’t let anyone else pay it.” Thomas sniffed, thinking that Tom would surely do it. But Tom’s money ought to go towards Sybbie, not him and his damned bail. Thomas wiped his eyes again. “Even if Mr. Branson tries to. Don’t let anyone pay it but me.” 

Murray smiled, a genuine wide smile. He seemed oddly amused. “You’ll be released on March sixteenth. It’s March second today. Do you think you can handle two more weeks in solitary? I don’t want you mixed in with the regular lot. They’re dangerous. You’re safer in a private cell.” 

“Yes.” Thomas thought of Butterbean. How would he be able to get him out of prison? “Yes, I can do that.” 

“Then I’ll leave it to you, Mr. Barrow.” Mr. Murray reached forward, and Thomas shook his hand at once. By, god. He almost felt like a normal man again. “I’ll also see that you get your toiletries back, and your dish-ware. I know as a possible lunatic they’ve been keeping you from shaving. That should be amended now.” 

“Thank you.” Thomas scratched at his thick beard. “I’d… rather like to get rid of this. I look like my father.” 

Mr. Murray chortled, amused. “Until the sixteenth Mr. Barrow.” Murray said. “I might be able to get you out sooner… but I make no promises.” 

“Sir.” Thomas was the one close to laughing now. “Before this morning I thought I would be here for the rest of my life.” He was about to start weeping, so overjoyed was he, “Now I know I’ll be home before April. I cannot convey to you… the joy… in my heart.” Thomas touched his breast, beaming. He must look like a solid fool. 

But Murray seemed touched and tipped his head. 

“I’ll tell Mr. Branson.” Was all Murray said, “Good day.” He left the cell, guided by the police officer who had brought him in. Suddenly Thomas was alone with Barsette again, and looked around to find the man brooding along the back wall. 

Barsette glared dully at him, arms crossed over his chest. Thomas realized his face was still wet; it was too late to hide his tears. 

“….Well…” Barsette said in a soft and menacing voice. “Bully for you.” 

 

~*~

When Elsie had told him of her heart’s desire, Charles had listened dutifully and responded as he felt his father might have to his mother. Often he found himself reflecting on what his father have done in difficult situations. 

So what would his father have done here? 

It was true that Charles had had the same thoughts from time to time, particularly in the past couple of weeks when Thomas about been about the house working on the roof or mending fences on their property. He’d missed out on that part of his life, having a child and raising it in his image. If there was any boy in the world who needed a good whipping and curbing it was Thomas Barrow. He might have been thirty but the boy had a tendency to act like he was twelve when he got in a ‘mood’. Howling and thrashing, acting like a monkey in a tree. Too many times to count, Charles had wanted to take him over his knee and whip him just one time. He could remember being young and getting in trouble- one time in a fit of despondency he’d moodily kicked over a bucket of ashes that a maid had painstakingly swept up to be thrown into the coal box. His poor mother had had to pick it up again while his father had taken him outside and beat him with his belt. As if this hadn’t been enough, the butler at the time (A Mr. Stainton) had beat him when his father was through. So Charles had essentially gotten two lickings, no desert for a week, and a very irate mother blackened by fireplace ashes all because he hadn’t wanted to clean the brushes used to groom his Lordship’s prized horses. 

What had Thomas gotten in his life when he’d done wrong?   
A father who had claimed to want to kill him, and a mother who hadn’t remembered his birthday. 

If Thomas had been Charles and Elsie’s child growing up, he would have lived a much different life. 

Charles knew for a fact that he would never had told Thomas flat out ‘I want to kill you’ or anything along those lines- but by god would he have whipped that boy bloody to make him behave. Lying? Thieving? Outright disrespect? No sir- not in his house nor on the sweet soil of England. Elsie would have been on a diligent watch, and at the first sign of bad behavior Charles would have taken off his belt, drug Thomas into a private room, pulled down his britches, and let him have it. What should it matter to him if the boy liked drawing in sketch pads or running about naked in rain showers? Childhood was short and death was certain either way- one ought to enjoy the embracing of youth while they could- but bad behavior had a tendency to grow and become something much worse. Thomas’ behavior had always been off the bit, but… consider how he’d changed and formed himself in the past six months alone? Two visits from a psychiatrist and suddenly Thomas was behaving… if not better, outright normal. 

And Charles could respect that. 

Adopting Thomas was another thing entirely, but it had crossed his mind. If Thomas was officially under his care in a legal basis, it would allow Charles to do what no man before had ever done: curb Thomas’ behavior. He couldn’t say for a fact that, if Thomas was his son, he might start acting normally and stop looking to Tom Branson for affection. But the outcome was plausible in his mind. He felt certain that Thomas’ behavior was not natural. That he’d been formed, morphed rather by nature (and his crude parents) into what he was today. If he lived in a Christian home and a loving environment… perhaps he would change. 

A nagging voice that so often took the form of his late mother’s pestered him in the back of his head: _“He cannot change and he should not have to.”_ but the whining five year old in Charles that had kicked over buckets of ash kept begging _“But maybe he can! Maybe he can!”_

Honestly. Who needed the belt now? 

Mr. Murray had come back to Downton for one final visit after speaking with Thomas in prison. Apparently the news had gone over well, save for the fact that Thomas did not have fifty pounds to his name. Though Charles had felt horrible for doing so, he’d snuck into Thomas’ spare bedroom at their cottage and had poked through his belongings until he’d found an old wooden tea caddy that Thomas had no doubt nicked from the pantry when Mrs. Patmore hadn’t been using it. Inside he’d found three medals for heroism during the war, a watch that had no doubt been replaced by his Lordship’s gift at Christmas, and a pair of cufflinks with clocks etched into the face (Mrs. Baxter’s gift). 

He’d also found about thirty pounds in savings, exhaustive painstaking from scrimping and nitpicking- keeping shoes that had worn out soles and substituting buttons for eyelets found at the bottoms of valet boxes. 

But Charles had property and a retirement fund, as did Elsie. Income was now flowing to their hands, though it was certainly nothing to talk about compared to those with higher paying jobs and deeper family lineage. 

But he knew he had enough to cover Thomas’ bail, and he would be happy to pay it. 

So as Mr. Murray had made his way to the car, fetching a ride back to the station, Charles had met him at the door. 

“Mr. Murray,” Charles had walked him out, using an umbrella to fend off lightly falling snow. “I was wondering if I might have a word.” 

“Certainly, but it’ll have to be quick or I’ll miss my train.” Mr. Murray paused by the car door. 

“Mr. Barrow has to pay fifty pounds upon being released-“ Charles said, but Mr. Murray was nodding already, clearly following his train of thought. 

“Yes, he’s concerned about that. Apparently he doesn’t have enough-“ 

“I would ask that you bill me the statement.” Charles said. Mr. Murray looked taken aback. 

“That is incredibly generous, Mr. Carson.” Mr. Murray said, impressed. “I confess, Lord Grantham has already agreed to pay forty pounds- he considers this a family member given Tom Branson’s position. But perhaps you could pay the other ten?” 

“How about an even twenty five a piece?” Charles said. Mr. Murray tipped his hat with a smile. 

“I’ll let you two work it out.” Mr. Murray said, “But let me know before the 16th.” And with that, he got into the car. Charles watched him go with a warm feeling in his chest, suddenly in synch with his world once more as he considered that his lordship had been benevolent enough to try and lessen Thomas’ burden. 

He returned to the house, determined to make things right. 

 

It turned out that his secondary plan of an even split down the middle suited his Lordship fine, and Mr. Carson rang Mr. Murray’s office after afternoon tea to tell him the updated news. Both payments would be mailed to Mr. Murray’s office, which would then be delivered in hand by Mr. Murray to the York County Courthouse and cemented before Thomas’ release on the sixteenth. Though he would forgo a public trial, there would still be a private hearing to solidify Judge Hewart’s terms. This would happen a few weeks after Thomas’ release, or whenever Judge Hewart had time in the upcoming month. 

If only it could be so cut and dry as free and well… not free. 

The rest of the day bled by rather easily, with Charles going about his daily business and preparing to lock up for the night. Now that he was no longer staying in the abbey, Mrs. Patmore took control of the keys after he’d left, but he always liked to make sure that each of the windows and doors was sealed tight by hand. This routine was a simple tug and push of each window of each room, and would take him about an hour while Elsie finished with the pantry and made sure Mrs. Patmore had her wares for the following morning. After he was finished, Charles would often file his paperwork while Elsie and Mrs. Patmore caught up on gossip- and so Elsie found him at his desk when she came to knock, hat in hand. 

“Ready to go?” She said with a soft smile. Charles returned it wearily. 

“Just a moment-“ He’d rather fallen off into dream world thinking about the situation and had neglected his final round of paperwork in the process, “I’ve a bit more paperwork to do.” 

“I’ll have a cup of tea while I wait.” Elsie declared, and shut his door again. 

It wasn’t that much to go through- just some odds and ends concerning employee files and a few disciplinary notes. Charles was constantly going back and forth between wanting to punish Daisy and Andrew further or holding Thomas’ prior punishment. He still felt it too lax, but they could argue about that another day. He rather enjoyed the idea of arguing with Thomas. The level of sass he exuded gave Charles a challenge others rarely presented. As Charles put away the final amends on other’s files, he could not help but pause at the sight of Thomas’ file poking out near the front. Damn him for having the last name that started with ‘B’. 

It was with morbid curiosity that Charles withdrew the file and began to stare at his own handwriting, remembering the very first time that he’d clapped eyes on Thomas Barrow. 

His initial thought had been that Thomas was too thin to be a footman; too weak in the arms and the hips. He’d had a certain sassy charm about him too, a sort of come back waiting on the tip of his tongue that could rear back and bite you when you least expected it. Charles had never hired someone with such sass before! Still- Thomas had given all the right answers to Charles’ questions, and when Charles had put him to the test of polishing and serving Thomas had come right through like a champion. Thin he might be- weak he was not. 

To be fair, Charles had still demanded to Mrs. Patmore in private that she beef him up as much as possible, and by the end of it Thomas had at long last been able to fill out his trousers without needing a belt notched to the final button. 

_Such sass…_ Charles could not help but wonder, looking back over Thomas’ awful initial behavior. _Such sass…_

If only Thomas had been his son, he wondered. He could have nipped all this in the bud. Thomas would have been whipped, and made to apologize to Mr. Bates; double chores, and no deserts for a month for that boy. That would have ironed him out right. 

Charles smiled a bit to himself, looking at the picture of Thomas from when he’d first arrived- a headshot that showed him in youth. He looked like a child compared to the man he knew now, with owlish wide eyes and a mop of black hair that could not be parted without copious amounts of pomade. 

If Thomas had been his son, he would have all but belted Thomas to a chair and gone at his hair with a horse brush to make it behave. He could just see Elsie now, doing battle with a toddler that would squirm and fuss. 

The door opened again, and there was Elsie with tea in hand. She’d even brought a cup for him, and placed it carefully upon his desk so that the cup did not rattle upon the old chipped saucer. Laced with milk… just like he always enjoyed. She was a good wife, to note his favors. Charles could remember his mother taking great pride in knowing how his father had liked his tea, his beef, his potatoes, and his deserts. He’d had more apple crumple in his youth than any other desert for the sole reason that his father had liked it. Charles caught her eye, and the pair of them noted that he was still holding Thomas’ file. 

“… I used to compare him to a diseased rat, smuggling pestilence into our house.” Charles noted his ugly handwriting so early into Thomas’ file, “Now I’m afraid he’s keeping the company of diseased rats.” 

Elsie pulled his visitor’s chair around the edge of the desk and sat next to him, slowly sipping upon her tea. She liked her laced in sugar… but not too much. 

“Do you really think this is a good idea?” He asked her, keeping his voice soft. “How are we to know what to do as parents, and does he really need parents anymore? He’s in his thirties-“ 

“Charles,” Elsie sat down her tea cup with a soft chink, “I should think him living with us for the past two weeks is more than enough to show that he still needs a parent. He never had parents in his childhood, we both know that-“ 

“… We’re old, Elsie.” Charles reminded her softly. At this, Elsie scoffed as if greatly offended. 

“Speak for yourself!” She declared, “I’m sixty five!” 

“Well I’m sixty eight!” Charles said, “I’m nearly seventy and I can’t be bothered to take on a head case-“ 

“He’s not a head case, Charles.” She caught him reproachfully, “And you know that.” 

Charles felt oddly embarrassed before his wife in that moment, and wondered at the slips of his tongue. 

But fear was creeping up into him, reminding him of a Thomas that thieved and lied and created such malice that Lucifer himself would have been proud. What would his former self say if he knew his future self was considering the boy’s adoption? 

“Say we adopt him.” Charles said for the sake of argument, “Say we pour our hearts and souls into loving and supporting him as we would any true child of our own. What when he turns and strikes us at our very heart-“

“He won’t.” Elsie cut him off. The idea seemed almost nonsensical to her. 

“But we don’t know that.” He reminded her, for no one could read the future. Even the Dowager was in the dark. 

“Yes, we do.” Elsie took another sip of her tea, unafraid. She caught his eye and took his hand in her own, letting her tea cool upon his desk so that she could lovingly squeeze his fingers, “We really do.” 

He was amazed at the faith in her voice…. if not a little shamed. 

~*~

 

Despite Barsette’s ominous warning, Thomas was not visited that night by the errant guard, and woke up the next morning feeling oddly refreshed despite having slept on what was essentially a slab of concrete. Butterbean was wildly playful too; perhaps there was something in the air. That morning Thomas was greeted with a set of silverware including a tin bowl, cup, and fork. Best of all, he was brought a shaving razor, though it was horribly dulled and a pair of shoes (which were hardly worthy of being called ‘shoes’). He felt like a human being again and though he received milk for breakfast his request for a bowl of water to shave with was obliged by a random guard who even blessed him with soap. 

He took a whores bath, first shaving his face and then washing himself with the bar of soap and the bowl of water. If only it were still raining- Thomas would have been able to have a proper shower. In his good mood, he even bathed Butterbean though it hardly did any good. When his shower was done, Thomas tossed the rest of the water out of his window along with his milk from breakfast and let Butterbean have his bread to feast instead on gruel. There had once been a time when Thomas was worried that he was getting slightly overweight; long gone were those concerns. Thomas could count his bottom ribs by this point. His navel was practically touching his back bone. God only knows when he was finally freed he had a feeling he was going to have a hard time eating honest to god food in genuine proportions.

The day after Thomas’ “bath”, he was greeted by an unexpected visitor to his cell. It was around noon, just after his meal, and Thomas was in the middle of breaking off chunks of bread for Butterbean and his flock of birds to share when he heard a gentle knocking upon his cell door. 

He looked up, curious, and crossed the short distance of his cell to press his ear to the metal. 

“Barrow?” Came the muted voice of Colonel Lieutenant Fletcher. 

“Colonel Fletcher?” Thomas said. 

“How are you doing in there?” 

“I’m holding up.” Thomas said, when in truth he felt oddly better now that he knew he was officially counting down the days. 

“Well keep it up.” Fletcher praised, “Only a week more or so now and you’re home free.” 

“Won’t you open the door and talk to me face to face?” Thomas asked, for he could barely hear Fletcher through the metal and he felt relatively silly at this point. Honestly, he was in the far corner of solitary and Fletcher was the top of the food chain police wise. What did they have to fear. 

“I can’t.” Fletcher said, “I can only intervene when a prisoner is making a ruckus.” 

Oh. So that’s what it would take. 

“AHH!” Thomas screamed wildly at the top of his voice, sending the pack of birds on his cell floor scattering for the window and Butterbean diving for cover underneath his pillow, “YOU BASTARDS! DAMN YOU ALL TO HELL I’LL HUNT YOU DOWN AND GUT YOU LIKE FISH! ALL HAIL SATAN! ALL HAIL SATAAAAAN!-“ 

At this the door to his cell was wrenched open to reveal a rather irate Fletcher on the other side who looked ready to punch Thomas in the mouth to keep him quiet. 

“Get against the wall!” Fletcher barked. Thomas jumped, doing as he was told and placing his hands up beside his head. Fletcher patted him down as if thinking Thomas was hiding a weapon, only to spin him back around and grab him ominously by the collar of his canvas shirt. 

By god the man was strong. “You’re god damn insane, you know that?” Fletcher barked.   
Thomas smiled. 

For a moment, Fletcher merely seethed, but when Thomas did not make to scream or kick he seemed to relax and finally let out a long breath through his nose to let go of Thomas’ collar. Thomas ran a hand through his hair, rather amused with himself as Fletcher reached into the deep pocket of his crisply starched uniform. Up close Thomas could see that Fletcher was about Bates’ age, maybe a little older. There was obvious gray in his sandy hair and a dark twinkle in his eyes that suggested he’d be liable to bite through steel when in the right mood. 

“I’ve got something for you, you little shite.” Fletcher said, though Thomas could tell the curse was a term of endearment at this point. Fletcher pulled out an odd fruit from his pocket, deep ruby red in its fleshy shell with a puckering top. It took Thomas a second to realize that it was a pomegranate, for the only time he’d ever seen them up close had been on serving platters for the upstairs. 

“Where did you get that?” Thomas wondered, amazed. 

“The CEO had a basket delivered to him yesterday.” Fletcher said, “Gave a bunch of fruit away to us. His wife just had a baby. Go on.” Fletcher pressed the pomegranate to Thomas’ chest, and Thomas looked down at it amazed. He took it, unsure what to do. “Have it.” 

“… I…” Thomas shook his head, feeling oddly scandalized. “I can’t. This is much too fine for the likes of me.” 

“Oh for god’s sake it’s not a fucking lobster Barrow.” Fletcher snapped. 

“If it was would you offer it to me?” Thomas teased. Fletcher raised a sandy eyebrow. 

“I’d keep it for myself thank you very much, now taste it or I’ll call you ungrateful.” Fletcher said. Thomas did as he was told, digging both his thumbs into the puckered top of the pomegranate to crack and peal it open. The seeds inside glittered like garnets, and he gazed at them for a moment wishing he could sketch the sight with his artists pad. 

But that was far away in the Carson’s cottage. God only knows what had become of it now. 

He dipped his head, and bite into the pomegranate. The seeds burst like tiny balloons in his mouth, filling his tongue with scarlet juice that stained his cleanly shaven chin and shirt. 

He’d never tasted anything so luscious. It didn’t seem real. 

“That you.” Thomas said, licking his lips clean. They were probably bloody red at this point, “It’s… succulent.” 

Fletcher seemed pleased by it, and though Thomas offered him half, Fletcher waved him off, turning away to look about his cell. 

“Don’t want it.” Fletcher said, “Not t’my tastes. Ah, damn-!” 

Thomas looked up just in time to see Fletcher taking out his police baton, ready to bring it down atop his pillow where Butterbean had come out. Thomas panicked, diving between Fletcher and Butterbean with his hands up so that Fletcher nearly beat the pomegranate halves out of his hands on accident. 

“Don’t!” Thomas pleaded. Fletcher looked taken aback. “He’s… My pet.” Thomas finished lamely. 

Fletcher scoffed, “Those little fuckers bring plague.” 

“I’m fine.” Thomas shrugged. 

Well. Fine was relative at this point but he wasn’t dying of the plague. 

Fletcher rolled his eyes, rubbing his brow as if he found Thomas to be tedious. Thomas cupped the pomegranate halves to his chest with one hand so that he could pick up Butterbean by the tail with the other. Butterbean went willingly, more than accustomed to Thomas at this point as Thomas put him on his shoulder. Butterbean was curious by base nature, and at once poked his face into Thomas’ collar, ear, and hair. When Thomas took another bite of pomegranate, Butterbean wanted a piece of that too. 

“No, Butterbean.” Thomas warned, pulling the fruit away before the mouse could climb onto his hand, “You can’t have this. It’s too acidic.” 

Fletcher looked slightly disturbed. 

“So what are you when you’re not keeping mice for pets?” Fletcher demanded. “I heard tell you came in with a livery.” 

“I’m a butler to the Lord of Grantham in Downton.” Thomas said. “It’s between Rippon and Thirsk.” 

“I know the area.” Fletcher was impressed, “Shit, I should have brought you tea instead. You could have served it to me.” 

Indeed. Thomas smiled, taking another bite of pomegranate. By god it was fine! He felt like he was wearing the jewels of a lord with pomegranate juice dripping down his chin. 

“Colonel?” A voice outside the cell was drifting closer. Fletcher glanced over his shoulder, cursed, and pointed to the wall. 

“Get against the wall.” Fletcher snapped. Thomas did as he was told at once, reaching up and grabbing Butterbean to put him in his pants pocket before anyone else could see him. Still holding the pomegranate halves, he placed his hands against the wall and waited nervous. 

“Maddin.” Fletcher greeted. Thomas looked over his shoulder to see it was none other than the slight guard named ‘Francis’ whom Barsette was so eager to make fun of from time to time. 

Maddin looked as nervous as Thomas felt, glancing to where he was up against the wall with pomegranate halves in his hands. 

“Is everything alright?” Maddin was cautious, it seemed. 

“Perfectly alright.” Fletcher grumbled, “Barrow’s about to be released in a week or two. I thought we’d celebrate early.” 

Maddin gaped at Thomas’ hands, realizing what he was holding, “You gave him the CEO’s pomegranate? Didn’t he give that to you as a gift?” 

“I didn’t want it.” Fletcher shrugged. “Gives me the shits, would you stop gawping he’s not a criminal. He’s a butler for christ’s sake.” 

Maddin straightened his expression at once, still looking slightly defiant. “Butler’s can be criminals too.” 

Fletcher gave Maddin a small smile, clearly fond of the man. Maddin stepped inside Thomas’ cell, looking about at the dim conditions sadly. 

“I’m glad you’re to be freed then.” Maddin admitted, “If the colonel says you’re innocent, you’re innocent.” Clearly Fletcher’s word went a long way in Wakefield. “I’m jealous he gave you a pomegranate.” 

In a good mood, Thomas offered Maddin the half he had not bitten into yet. Taken aback, Maddin blinked at him owlishly before silently accepting the pomegranate half. 

“Cheers.” Was all Thomas said. Maddin bit into the pomegranate at once, holding it awkwardly away from his starched uniform to keep it from flecking in juice.

“Your first name is Francis, right?” Thomas said, Maddin was once again taken aback. 

“How did you know my name?” Maddin demanded, slightly wary even with pomegranate juice on his chin. 

“Barsette.” Thomas said, frowning a bit. Maddin flushed, embarrassed and bit aggressively into his pomegranate. Fletcher rolled his eyes. 

“That reminds me,” Maddin said speaking to Fletcher, “Barsette’s been causing trouble again. I caught him conversing with Salvador, Peterson, and Bronson.” 

Fletcher’s eyes flashed. He glanced at Thomas, eyes narrowing. Thomas licked his lips, unsure what this must all mean. “When?” Fletcher growled. 

“This afternoon.” Maddin said, “Looked real pissed. Told him to stop but you know how he gets-“ 

Fletcher rubbed his jaw, eyes narrowing as he looked down at the floor. He glanced up at Thomas again, but quickly looked away when Thomas caught him. 

“…He…” Thomas broke off, unsure of how to go on. Fletcher was watching him with such a hardened stare it nearly made him uncomfortable, “The other day he threatened me. Said he wanted me to be a spy against you. Said if I didn’t he’d make sure I was put in a cell with someone who’d-“ But Thomas broke off. 

He had a feeling even Fletcher would not be forgiving if he found out Thomas was a homosexual. 

Thomas shook his head. Fletcher’s nostrils flared. 

“Do you think he’d try and start another riot?” Maddin asked. 

“No.” Fletcher said, “He knows I’m watching. He won’t do anything that stupid again. But he also knows he’s not supposed to talk with the prisoners, so I’ll be punishing him for that. Ah- speak of the fucking devil.” 

Thomas almost poked his head out of his cell to see who was coming until Fletcher took him hard by the shoulder and steered him back in. 

“The fuck are you doing?” Fletcher cursed, “Give me that-“ He snatched the nearly finished pomegranate husk from Thomas’ hand and tossed it out the window of his cell. He likewise grabbed Maddin’s, which was unfair as the man had only gotten one or two good bites, and threw it out the window as well. “Get against the damn wall.” Fletcher clearly liked to curse when he was giving commands. 

In a small moment of hilarity both Maddin and Thomas stepped to the wall till Fletcher let out a bitter breath and grabbed Maddin by the back of his collar to yank him away from the wall. 

“Not you, god damnit!” Fletcher barked. “You put your hands up!” He pointed to Thomas in a command. Thomas did it at once, while Butterbean hid deep within his pocket clearly sensing something bad was about to happen. “You act like you’re a fuckin’ officer. What’s wrong with you?” 

“I thought you were talking to me!” Maddin begged. Fletcher hissed. 

“An’ why the hell would I tell you to get against the wall?” 

“I dunno, you’re the colonel not me!” 

“Shuttup. Here he comes-“ 

Maddin, in an attempt to act aloof, relaxed again against the wall with his arms folded over his chest. Thomas glanced at him before looking away, once again licking pomegranate juice off his chin. He looked down at his pocket where Butterbean could just be seen from a vertical view, hiding. 

Thomas felt very afraid for his pet, all of a sudden. 

“Hello!” Barsette’s snide voice was quite loud. Thomas glanced around to see the man in the doorway, his hands in his pocket and a smirk on his thin lips, “Are we having a party?” 

“Do you want to explain to me why you were conversing with prisoners again?” Fletcher demanded, not even giving Barsette’s initial comment the time of day. 

“I was…” Barsette scoffed, caught out. His eyes darted to Maddin, narrowing. Maddin flushed, as if embarrassed at being caught for having told the truth. They were like children tattling on one another. “Observing the climate of their cells. What are you doing if not the same-“ He gestured to Fletcher and Thomas. 

“I am the Lieutenant Colonel of this prison!” Fletcher barked, his command so strong that Barsette took a slight step back wary, “I can do as I please! On that note, I warned you in December if I ever caught you talking to Salvador again, I would demote you!” 

“But you didn’t catch me, sir.” Barsette said. 

“No, but Maddin has worked very hard to keep an eye on you for me.” Fletcher spat, “Which I suppose you knew since you were so keen for Barrow to be your little spy.” 

Thomas could not look away, enraptured as Barsette glared at him ferociously. 

He had a feeling he was going to catch hell for that later. 

“Maddin told me that you spoke not only with Salvador this afternoon, but also Peterson and Bronson. I do not find this shocking, since the last time I caught you it was with those same three criminals. When you were in York County Prison and known for inciting violence did you not often take particular criminals under your wing?” 

“I meant no offense sir!” Barsette’s tone had taken on a bizarrely naive tone to it now, which insulted everyone’s intelligence as if they might somehow believe he was completely unaware of his foul play, “Honest! I only wanted to ensure that they were in good condition. Salvador has a cough-“ 

“A cough?” Fletcher barked loudly, quite angry, “Don’t fucking make me laugh. You took Jones’ head and split it like a baked apple. And that man is a fucking cardinal saint compared to Salvador!” 

“I caught Jones outside of his cell, he was trying to make a break for it-!” Barsette begged. 

“Liar!” Maddin cut in angrily, Barsette rounded on him in a flash. 

“You want to scrub latrines again, you sack of shit?” He scathed. Maddin paled. “Or are you gonna go run home to your mummy crying again?” 

Maddin leapt off the wall, his fist raised. Barsette took a step back, fists raised up-! 

“That’s enough!” Fletcher roared, shouting over both of them and spreading his arms so that they could not strike one another. Thomas almost wanted to clap his hands over his ears, their voices were so loud. 

Fletcher glared at the both of them till each man dropped his fists. Their chests were rising and falling, their faces flushed and their mouths set in tight lines. 

“I’ve had enough of this.” Fletcher spat, pointing a finger to Barsette and towering over the man. He was a good foot taller, “I’m tired of your attitude, I’m tired of your insolence. I’m tired of your violence. I’m tired of your bullshit! I think what you need is a good lesson in humility!” 

“He’s the incompetent one!” Barsette spat, gesturing an angry hand at Maddin who was beginning to clench his fists again. “He only got this job because his dear old mum fucked the Colonel!” 

Maddin snapped. He reached a hand up cocking an arm back to no doubt punch the shit out of Barsette. But Thomas knew that Maddin would be punished for striking another officer and panicked, pulling back from the wall to grab Maddin’s elbow tightly and hold on. He was weak, and could not stop the punch entirely, but he slowed it greatly and allowed Barsette time to step out of the way as Fletcher got between them once more and shoved both Maddin and Thomas back into Thomas cell. 

“Stop!” Thomas begged, Maddin, “Stop it he’s not worth it! You’ll be punished!” 

“Let me go!” Maddin struggled against him. So weak was Thomas that he could not hold Maddin and he broke free, knocking Thomas down with the same thrust so that Thomas fell wildly to the floor. Frightened of squashing Butterbean, Thomas fell painfully to his back instead of his side and smacked his head against the concrete so that stars burst in front of his eyes and he groaned loudly. 

“ENOUGH!” Fletcher roared, “Hands against the wall, both of you! Now!” 

They did not dare disobey a direct order, and Thomas watched dazed from the floor as both Maddin and Barsette got against opposite sides of the wall seething at one another. 

“You-!” Fletcher rounded on Barsette, “Are being demoted to C.O.” 

“What?!” Barsette barked, horrified. 

“You bloody heard me you little tyrant!” Fletcher roared. “And I’m giving your title to Maddin. Let’s see how he fairs as the Lieutenant.” 

“Sir!” Maddin gaped, flushed but undeniably excited to be promoted. 

“You can’t do this-!” Barsette cried out. 

“For the last fucking time, Barsette.” Fletcher took one step forward after another, and suddenly the men were pressed nose-to-nose, their chests rising and falling against one another. 

Barsette looked terrified of Fletcher, as well he should be. 

“I am the Lieutenant Colonel.” Fletcher spat, “And the only thing that keeps me from being the head of this shit hole prison is one breath in one body. I am your superior by far. I am your superior’s superior, and if you think both the Captain and the Major haven’t been in my ear since the day you got here, telling me what a shit cake you are, you’re sadly mistaken.” 

Barsette gaped, speechless. 

“…Now give me your honors, and your keys.” 

Barsette paled, looking down at his chest where a silver badge in the shape of a seven pointed star lay. He clearly did not want to take it off. 

“I haven’t got all day, fruitcake.” Fletcher barked, making Barsette jump.   
Utterly humiliated, shockingly look like he might cry any second now, Barsette bitterly ripped his badge off his chest and all but chucked it at Maddin who caught it mid-air before it could hit him in the face. 

“Keys!” Fletcher added, pointing to the key ring jingling at Barsette’s hip. Barsette fumbled with them, taking an unusually long time to pull them from his hip and chuck them, again, at Maddin who caught them. 

“Check them.” Fletcher warned, “Are they all there?” 

Maddin counted the keys with fumbling hands. His fingers were trembling. “I think so.” 

“…Now get out.” Fletcher commanded, “And don’t let me catch you near Maximum Security again or it’ll be the door hitting you in the arse. You understand?” 

Barsette said nothing for a moment, glaring bitterly at both Maddin and Thomas who still lay shaken on the ground. Butterbean had almost crawled out of Thomas’ pocket, poking his nose out to see what was going on. Thomas kept his hand over the mouse’s head, afraid of what Barsette would do if he saw the helpless creature. 

“…Yes sir.” Barsette whispered, and without another word he pushed rudely past Fletcher to storm off out onto the stone courtyard separating solitary from the rest of Wakefield. 

Fletcher watched him go, running a weary hand through his graying hair before turning and gesturing from Maddin to Thomas. 

“Get him up.” Fletcher grumbled. 

Maddin pinned on his seven starred badge and hooked the jingling key ring to his command belt next to his baton, stooping over to grab Thomas by the hand and elbow so that he could be hoisted back to his feet. 

“Sorry-“ Maddin looked slightly embarrassed. 

“Don’t fuckin’ leap on a police officer like that ever again.” Fletcher warned. “innocent or no, that’s against prison rules.” He glared at Thomas as if Thomas was the one who’d been offensive in all of this. Thomas felt slightly ashamed as Maddin made to sit him on the corner of his head. He rubbed the back of his head while Butterbean poked his nose out again and looked cautiously around. Maddin stared at the mouse alarmed. 

“Out.” Fletcher commanded, steering Maddin to the door before he could make any comment, “Get to my office, now.” 

“But there’s a-“ Maddin pointed to the mouse now on Thomas’ lap. 

“Yeah, yeah, I saw it!” Fletcher snapped, “What do you think I am, blind?” 

“He’ll catch plague-“ 

“That’s his own affair.” Fletcher grabbed the door to Thomas’ cell, giving him one last look as he made to close it. 

“… Keep your head down.” Was the last thing Fletcher said. He closed the door and locked it. 

Alone again, Thomas winced, rubbing the back of his head once more. Christ he could feel an egg forming. 

 

 

Thomas spent the rest of the day laying down, his head eventually feeling slightly normal as dinner was brought to him. He slowly ate his ox marrow soup, letting Butterbean and the birds have his bread before tossing his milk out to the cats who were yowling by his window. He went to bed early that night, laying on his side as Butterbean curled up by his chin and neck, licking his paws for the tiniest remains of crumbs.

As night fell, Thomas was already asleep, exhausted by the ruckus earlier that day. 

 

_He dreamed he was a faerie, sleeping inside a pomegranate seed. He felt cocooned and safe, with wings made of garnet and a chariot comprising of a harvest mouse harnessed in gold. He was wrapped in silk the color of a burning coral, and could swear there were diamonds in his hair._

_The pomegranate that he slept inside was cracked upon slowly, the sound of fruit and seed being shucked awakening Thomas from his slumber. He looked up into a bright light and saw Tom’s handsome face above him. Tom was a giant- or perhaps he was just incredibly small being a faerie hiding in a fruit. Tom held Thomas in the palm of his hand, beaming down at him. Thomas yawned, sitting up in Tom’s palm._

_“Beautiful.” Tom’s voice echoed in his years, “You’re so beautiful.”_   
_Thomas peered up at him bashfully-_

 

Thomas was suddenly jerked awake in a shocking and violent movement. 

His hands were being forced behind his back, his head was covered with a canvas sack. Someone was pressing a hand over his mouth, so that he almost couldn’t breath even as he began to scream wildly and thrash! There were at least three people grabbing him, with two hands on his legs and four hands to his arm and back. His hands were roped! 

He knew immediately that this situation must be Barsette’s doing, and that the people holding him were either guards on his side, or prisoners that had already been incarcerated for rape or murder. He thrashed petrified, but it was no good. He was weak, he was tired, and he was overpowered. Thomas could feel himself being drug into the outside, where freshly falling snow was turning the air quite cold. He’d taken off his shoes before getting into bed, and his feet stung in the slush as he was drug across the stone courtyard. Thomas could hear the huffing and puffing of other men struggling to hold him still, could feel the heat of bodies close to him. 

He tried to scream again, but the hand over his mouth and the sack over his face made it impossible for sound to travel far. It was his only chance to be heard, to be saved by guards like Fletcher and Maddin, so he just kept trying to scream. 

But then the movement around him stopped, and he was dropped painfully onto wood of all things. The sack was ripped off his head, and Thomas gazed up, dazed, to see Barsette and three other men who were in prison uniforms and leering. One was a brute, with tan skin and dark hair that hung to his shoulders. He had tattoos, clearly inked from time behind bars, all up and down his chest and arms. Another man was just as bulky and strong, with a brown goatee and scars on his face as if he’d been in a fight against a knife. The third man seemed to be the smallest, but that was a joke given he was certainly larger than Thomas. He seemed to be laying upon a platform of some type; Thomas could clearly see the stars above him, framed in a black inky sky. This platform was surely where men were hung; there was a pole and a bar above his head, much like where a noose would hang. 

Were they going to hang him?! 

“You fucked with the wrong man.” Barsette spat. 

The tattooed man and the man with the goatee grabbed him up from the platform. Caught between them, Thomas was trapped as the third man took the collar of his shirt in both hands and ripped it clean down to the bottom. Thomas’ chest and stomach were exposed to the cold night air and he shivered violently as his shirt was flung away from him to land in slush. Thomas prepared himself to be punched or stabbed, expecting a knife to come out at any moment, but instead of doing this Barsette had the audacity to pull out his penis and urinate on Thomas. 

Thomas grimaced, teeth clamped tight to keep the scream of anger in. At this point any wild outbursts could get him killed; his heart was pounding in his throat from the anxiety. He was suddenly doused in foul smelling urine, and clenched his fists tight behind his back where they were tied. 

Thomas could feel the tiniest tip of the rope. He began to tug at it, fingers flying behind his back to try and free himself. 

“Like what you see, lavender?” Barsette jeered. “Bet a man like you would pay a quid or two to get pissed on by a bloke as good looking as me.” 

They others laughed.   
Thomas’ cheeks burned with a mixture of anger and shame. 

“Bet you’d pay a quid or two more for something else.” 

Thomas pulled at the untangling rope holding his hands. It slipped free just as the third man reached up to grab his canvas trousers as if to rip them free as well-! 

“Oh hell no!” Thomas barked, and in a wild move used the leverage of the two strong men holding him to kick the third in the groin. 

His aim was swift and true, causing the prisoner to be knocked not only off his feet but off the platform with a wild yell. 

Thomas twisted his arms freeing himself and wrenching his wrists out of the rope to use it like a whip in the air. He cracked the tallest prisoner across the eyes, and he winced, grimacing against the burn of rope on such tender areas. The second prisoner seemed to realize he was in danger of being hurt, and let go of Thomas to save himself. Thomas backed up, all but ready to jump off the platform at this point as he raised his shaking fists defiantly in front of his face. 

“What are you gonna do?!” Barsette cackled, clearly finding the sight of Thomas on the defensive hysterical, “Fight me?” 

At this he took out his baton and began to cradle it with both hands menacingly. Thomas knew one good swing from that thing would cleave his head in two and he kept his distance as he watched the other two prisoners. The darker one grinned, finding this all amusing. The second one didn’t seem to find it as funny while the third one groaned from the stone below only to fall silent. 

“I might fight you.” Thomas snapped, “You did piss on me.”   
He cocked back, and in a wild move spat in Barsette’s face. 

Both prisoners attacked, and Thomas ducked down so that he was almost crouching on his knees. The tanner man grabbed him at once, holding him tightly in a vice like grip around his chest. Thomas kicked wildly with his feet, and in a moment of pure luck not only caught the second prisoner in the stomach but also the mouth. The man shouted in pain, spitting out blood and a tooth. Thomas had a feeling he’d broken a toe in the process, but couldn’t give less of a damn at the moment. His life was on the line! 

“Wow!” Barsette jeered as the third and final prisoner jerked him back up. He was so strong and tall that he could hold Thomas up in the air without any trouble, while his mate groaned and lay upon the wood of the platform, holding his stomach as if in intense pain. “I’m impressed! You took out Peterson and Bronson!” 

Barsette paused, glancing at the second prisoner who was still wincing on the wood. “Well… not Bronson.” 

“Fucking bitch got my liver.” Bronson groaned, blood dribbling down his chin. Thomas realized he’d struck not only Bronson’s mouth, but his nose which was swelling rapidly and turning an alarming shade of purple. 

“I’m going to guess your name is Salvador.” Thomas spat, trying to look over his shoulder at the dark man who still held him. 

“Well aren’t you clever.” Salvador said; he had a thick accent, clearly from the coast. He must have been a sailor or a dock worker before being imprisoned. 

“What’s a matter, Barsette?” Thomas’ voice shook with anxiety but still his menacing tongue wagged. “Can’t take a demotion?” 

“Oh I’d be real careful what you say to me!” Barsette snarled, and brought up his baton to try and crack Thomas across his face. Thomas ducked, his ear stinging as Barsette nearly hit him; instead he ended up accidentally hitting Salvador… who unnervingly enough didn’t seem too rattled by a baton to the face. 

“Sorry ‘bout that.” Barsette muttered, slightly embarrassed at missing such an easy target. 

“S’fine.” Salvador didn’t sound the slightest bit alarmed. Thomas’ ear was stinging; god if that blow had been direct it would have broken his jaw! 

“I’ve had enough of you, Barrow.” Barsette flushed, “You’ve embarrassed me and that is unforgivable.” 

“Yeah?” Thomas’ voice trembled, “Come on then. I can take it.” 

Christ the shit that was coming out of his mouth— was he insane? 

Barsette put a hand on his crotch, pulling out his flaccid penis again in clear menacing intent. 

“You won’t be so jumped up when I shove this cock in your mouth-“ Barsette taunted, but Thomas cut him off with a loud drawl. 

“Yes, please…” He sneered obnoxiously, “Put your soft, fleshy, easily damaged organ in my mouth between my teeth… Let’s see how long it takes for me to bite it off.” 

Barsette stopped, reproachful. 

“…Maybe not this one, Soames.” Salvador murmured. 

“Maybe not.” Barsette agreed, putting his penis back up. 

Thomas smirked, feeling oddly satisfied at this point until Barsette caught him smiling and glared. 

Thomas froze, wondering what would happen next. 

“Oh…” Barsette’s tone somehow frightened him more at this point. “You like to smile?” 

Thomas pursed his lips. Barsette’s eyes flashed, “Oh come on, duckie, smile for me.” Barsette advanced till he was chest to chest with Thomas, the only thing separating them being Salvador’s arms. “I said smile!” He snarled. 

Thomas felt like a deer caught in the lights of a motorcar, unsure of what to do. Should he scream for help? Should he trash again? Should he say and do nothing, try to worm his way out of this one? He felt oddly paralyzed. 

Barsette reached into his pocket, and Thomas’ heart skipped a beat as he pulled out a pocket knife. 

“I’ll have you smilin’ yet.” Barsette growled. 

“Yes!” Barked Bronson who was still laying on the platform with his knees curled to his chest. “Cut him open!” 

“I got him-“ Salvador reached up with one hand and grabbed Thomas tight by the scalp so that he couldn’t jerk his head. Barsette flicked open his pocket knife, the blade gleaming in the starlight. Thomas’ heart was pounding in his ears, he felt like he might vomit-! 

Barsette grabbed his jaw with one hand fingers piercing into Thomas’ skin so that he was almost forcing his jaw open. Thomas breathed wildly through his mouth, air whistling past his teeth. 

“Fletcher will find out.” Thomas managed to say. Barsette’s eyes were glazed, manic with devious intent. “He’ll find out what you are. An’ that’ll be it.” 

“Oh I don’t think you’ll be talkin’.” Barsette growled. 

And then it happened. 

Barsette lunged forward with his knife hand and Thomas felt the blade sting inside his mouth as Barsette targeted the corners. He screamed out as Barsette yanked his hand back, the cut coming quite and sharp. Blood gushed into his open mouth and down his chin, and Thomas screamed even louder, kicking and thrashing in Salvador’s hold as Barsette moved his knife to the other corner of Thomas’ mouth and cut again. The pain was blinding, and Thomas vomited on instinct, covering both his and Barsette’s front in stomach acid and blood as Barsette just continued to cut. For every inch that Thomas screamed, the wounds at thee corners of his mouth stretched and burned. He was damning himself, hurting himself by crying out, and desperately wanted to cover his mouth with his hands as acid and air burned at his new wounds. 

“Now you’re smiling.” Barsette declared, triumphant even with vomit on his chest and spit on his face. 

Salvador finally let go of Thomas, and he fell to the platform in a bloody pile. He rolled, clutching his mouth and screaming, but accidentally fell off the edge of the platform to drop a good five feet and hit stone, slush, and frozen puddles of water. He screamed again, unable to stop himself. It hurt too bad-! He couldn’t keep quiet! 

“Jacob, shut him up!” Barsette barked. Salvador ran down the steps of the platform, grabbing a loose rock from the foundations of the hanging stage to raise it over Thomas’ head. 

“Say goodnight.” Salvador spat, and brought the rock down. Thomas rolled, and the rock struck stone to explode like powder in the man’s hand. 

High pitched whistles were beginning to sound. Thomas just kept screaming, knowing full well that other guards had now caught the scene and were coming to help him. 

“Go!” Barsette snarled, grabbing up Bronson from the platform and all but shoving him down the stairs to Salvador’s awaiting arms, “Go! Take Bronson with you!” 

Salvador didn’t waste another minute, and in a shocking move of camaraderie grabbed Bronson beneath his knees to carry the man in his arms, running for the dark and outer corridors of Wakefield. Barsette took his bloodied pocket knife and tossed it so that it lay next to Peterson’s crumpled form. He loomed over Thomas, glaring at him; he reached out with his foot and stepped on Thomas’ chest to push him to the ground. 

He leaned in, nearly crushing Thomas’ breath. Thomas wheezed, terrified as Barsette’s face came close. Flat on his back, blood poured down Thomas’ cheeks to coat his face in red. 

“…You tell a single soul, I’ll kill you. Y’hear?” Barsette spat. 

Thomas had never been more frightened in his life. He whimpered, petrified of the man over him. 

“I’ll kill everyone you love… Including that Branson boy your lawyer talks about.” 

Thomas whimpered, pinching his eyes shut to block out Barsette’s vile face.   
But then he was gone, and Thomas was alone on the ground.

He whimpered, spluttered, and burst into noisy tears as lights suddenly clicked on and flooded the snowy courtyard in a blinding flush. Men were coming, whistles were blowing, but all of it was too late. The snow was coated in red. 

 

~*~

That night, Carson dreamed a dream most frightening and fantastic all at once. 

_He was young again, fit and well like he’d been in his prime with hands as steady as a beloved horse and a back like iron. Despite his soaring in luck, Charles paced petrified in the living room of his cottage, all but tearing a hole into the floor with his feet as he listened to the anguished howls from above his head._

_Elsie was in the throws of labor, his babe bringing her misery even as she fought to bring it into the world._

_Somehow in this dream world, Charles’ parents were still alive, looking as they might have when he’d been in his twenties. There was his mother with iron gray hair in a high bun, in her heavily starched and frayed lilac day dress as she did a cross stitch of gospel promising reward for hard work. There was his father, sitting in Charles’ armchair by the fire, smoking his pipe with a plate beside him of finished apple crumble. Neither of them seemed the slightest bit frightened by the sound of Elsie screaming above them._

_“Six years.” Charles’ father reminded him, just as he’d often done when Charles had first returned from the theatre, “Six years you left me alone. Why?” His hands trembled minutely around his pipe._

_“Heaven looks upon us in our struggles, Charlie.” His mother reminded him patiently as she continued to cross-stitch. Charles looked up at the ceiling, noting that it was leaking slightly at certain floor boards like the pipes were straining to keep up with the push of time._

_“I did this to her.” Charles felt horrific guilt and shame swallow him up- to bring pain to the only woman he’d ever truly loved. “This is my fault.”_

_“Let’s see if he leaves you alone for six years.” Charle’s father grumbled from his armchair._

_“Hux.” His mother muttered his name reproachfully, “Let him be.”_

_She pulled a thread then cut it with her teeth; from above them all, the wailing of an infant could be heard, high pitched and shrill._

_Charles had not bothered to declare the obvious to his parents. He’d fled the living room, taking the stairs two and a time to reach the top where he found the door to his bedroom ajar._

_On the other side, Charles found Elsie in bed, the sheets in a tangle between her legs shining in sweat with Dr. Clarkson wiping his hands clean of blood, sleeves rolled up to the elbows. Elsie held a squirming infant in her arms, a tiny thing pink and hysterical wrapped in soft cotton though its tiny feet peeked out every time it kicked and shrieked._

_The sight of the baby robbed him of all expression._

_“A healthy baby boy, Mr. Carson.” Dr. Clarkson said, rising up and clapping him gently upon the back in fond congratulations, “Well done. I’ll let the two of you have some time alone.”  
_He stepped out, his work done._ _

__Elsie was young and beautiful, her hair a rich brown mingled with gold that spilled in loose curls over her shoulder in a frayed braid. Her face was dripping with sweat, her breathes were slight and shallow, but she was beaming at their child. Beaming with such devotion and love that Charles likened her in that moment to the Mother Mary holding an infant Christ._ _

__“…He’s perfect, Charles.” She whispered, rubbing at the baby’s cheek with her finger. The infant instantly tried to suckle at her nail, confused at the stimulation surrounding him so early into life._ _

__“…My darling-“ Charles croaked, unable to say much else._ _

__“Would you like to hold him?” She asked, noting the longing in his voice. She held out his son with steady arms, an amazing feat after just giving birth. Charles took the infant at once, his hands shaking. He cursed them, frightened he might drop the babe, but as he tucked his arms beneath the squirming bundle he felt quite strong._ _

__The baby had a tuft of black hair upon his crown, and his eyes (when he deigned to slowly open them) were the slightest icy blue. His pouting red lips and wobbling chin showed him to have an attitude, and he certainly had a healthy set of lungs as he whimpered in Charles’ arms._ _

__What a trouble maker this one would be. Charles tittered, overjoyed._ _

__“What shall we call him?” Elsie asked. Charles perched himself beside her on the bed so that she could lean beside him, the pair of them lovingly holding their first born child to come. There would be others certainly, they were young and healthy- in love and able. But this boy would be special to them, An obvious marker in the moment when they became more than just man and wife. When they had become parents.__

__The baby hiccuped, clearly ready to start another round of crying at any given moment. Such a fuss._ _

__“I thought we already knew-“ Charles was certain they’d had a conversation about this before. “Thomas?”_ _

__“Thomas.” Elsie agreed softly, stroking the baby’s tuft of black hair, “Thomas Huxley Carson.”_ _

__“Now-“ Charles said with pride, “Now you shall be ours.”_   
_He bent low, and placed the smallest whiskery kiss upon the baby’s brow, eliciting the tiniest grunt from the infant that didn’t take very well to being smothered._ _

_Charles jolted awake, his heart pounding and his face flushed with sweat. He sat up in the same bed he’d dreamed of sitting in with his newborn son, his mind running wildly with the ideas of having been a father in his youth and what it might have changed in his life. Elsie lay asleep at his side, her chest rising and falling gently beneath their many covers._

_Charles shuddered, looking out their bedroom window to find the faintest vestiges of blue light coming in through their lace curtains._

_Their alarm clock went off, a wild ringing that nearly gave Charles a heart attack till he reached over and shut the damnable thing off. Elsie groaned beside him, rolling onto her back to blearily open her eyes._

_She noted him sitting bolt upright, sweating, and frowned._

_“Charles?” She whispered, her voice gravely from lack of use. “Is everything alright?”_

_He swallowed, wiping at his brow with trembling fingers. He could not tell if it was from the shakes or from the emotion that pounded within him._

_“…Just a dream.” Charles finally admitted._

_“A bad dream?” Elsie sat up in bed, pushing her braid off her shoulder to rub his arm lovingly._

_“I wouldn’t say that.”  
But he didn’t say more, either way. _

_~*~_

_Thomas was drug back to his cell- literally drugged by men holding him up beneath the arm pits. Once there, he’d been flung onto his bed and forced down by guards who tried to keep him from thrashing and screaming._

_People had tried to talk to him, to get him to do things- but Thomas was so panicked and pain filled that he couldn’t keep it together. The doctor was called, and Thomas found himself hauled up by guards once again to be drug back across the courtyard. Halfway there, Thomas’ legs gave out and two guards had to carry him between them, taking him to the infirmary where other men were moaning in pain on their own beds._

_Dr. Moore arrived, no doubt having been pulled out of bed in order to attend to him, and hastily had him strapped down onto the gurney around the wrists, stomach, chests, and legs. Finally able to work, Dr. Moore cleaned his face and, for whatever reason, began to ply him with cheap whiskey as if hoping to numb the pain._

_There were voices above him, strong and firm._

_“Bear down, damnit!” Thomas heard a familiar voice say, he blinked dazed to see Fletcher above him, hair askew and free of pomade._

_“Drink!” The doctor kept pouring whiskey into his mouth where it mixed with blood, “Drink and stop screaming- This is a glasgow grin they’ve given you. Keep your mouth shut or you’ll end up with worse scarring than you’ve already got.”_

_Thomas whimpered, tears pouring down his cheeks to cut tracks through the blood. He gurgled, choking momentarily on blood until Dr. Moore brought him a shallow dish to spit in. He ended up vomiting again, so that acid dripped down the side of the gurney._

_“Christ.” The Doctor spat, wiping his hand clean on his trousers, “I need morphine.”_

_“Judge’s order, can’t give him nothing-“ Fletcher shook his head._

_‘Then get me more whiskey!” Moore demanded angrily. Fletcher left without another word, and Moore washed his hands again in a basin of water to line up a heavy duty needle with thick black thread._

_Fletcher returned- Thomas couldn’t tell how much time had passed- he had whiskey in hand and ripped the metal cap off to gently tug at Thomas’ bloodied chin with his fingers. “Hold to.” Fletcher murmured as he filled Thomas’ mouth with whiskey. The alcohol was beginning to numb his pain. “Steady on.”_

_Dr. Moore bent over his head, and began to pierce his wounds with the needle, sewing the sides of his mouth shut._

_~*~_

_On March 11th, Charles found himself feeling quite nervous as he dressed that morning in his livery, packing a day suit that he would change into at the abbey while Elsie did not bother with her old black dress and instead put on her navy pleated skirt and a peach blouse. He put on her angel brooch fondly, brushing her hair to overlap it in a rolling bun at the back of her head as she put on her hat._

_It had been with great trepidation that he’d approached Mr. Murray a few days before, calling him to tell him that he wanted to speak with Thomas in regards to a swap of guardianship. To say that Mr. Murray had been surprised was an understatement, and Charles had still not told his lordship which normally would not have sat right with him save the circumstances this time felt oddly different. Despite having always put the family in the same class as his own family, Charles was oddly embarrassed about what he was attempting to do and did not want to tell his lordship of his plan until he’d succeeded. That way, if he failed and Thomas shot them down, the shame would be his own and no one else would have to endure it._

_Well… no one else but Elsie. How Charles wished that he could spare her from this insanity._

_After breakfast was served, Charles left the house at the mercy of Mrs. Baxter who had graciously taken over a large amount of duties while Mr. Moseley was coming up to serve both lunch and dinner. Should their errand not take them that long (they were hoping to be back before five), Charles would send Moseley home and continue right on without him… but just in case, he felt content with his backup plan._

_The pair of the ten o’clock train to York, promised by Mr. Murray to be met at the station by a motorcar. Elsie seemed delightedly anxious, almost bouncing in her seat as Charles failed to make one inch of difference on his crossword. The pair of them were too filled with thoughts to be still, too hopeful to keep from glancing at one another with bright eyes and timid smiles._

_The station was relatively quiet that day, and it was easy to spot Mr. Murray waiting out front as their tickets were stamped and they passed through the iron gates. They found Mr. Murray in a gleaming black Maxwell, waiting patiently for them, and Charles opened the door for Elsie so that the pair of them could clamber into the backseat. In his hands Mr. Murray held his briefcase, no doubt containing the guardianship documents he might need._

_“Good morning to you both,” Mr. Murray greeted them, rapping at the door so that the chauffeur could take off once more without fear of leaving someone behind. “I hope your train went well.”_

_“I couldn’t stay still.” Elsie admitted with a smile, slightly embarrassed for her silly behavior. “I feel a bit like a school girl.”_

_“I confess, this whole thing took me by surprise but if it works Thomas will walk a free man today.” Mr. Murray gloated, patting his briefcase. “You could very well be taking him home.”_

_Charles imagined the pride he might feel, calling the house to tell them that Thomas was coming home safe. How delighted Branson would be, no doubt screeching and bouncing off the walls. His lordship would be glad for the lack of scandal. The less time Thomas spent out of the abbey’s walls, the better._

_Beside him, Elsie was beginning to jitter again. Charles reached over and gently clasped her hand in her lap._

_HMP Wakefield dominated the skyline of Wakefield county, a truly massive monster made of brick and concrete that gave Charles the slightest squirm to his stomach. Normally he would be pleased by the sight of such a well fortified prison. He was glad to know that mad men were kept away from the rest of the public, that those who harmed could harm no more._

_But Thomas had never harmed, and still here he was trapped behind bars. It made Charles sick to his stomach._

_As their motorcar pulled up around the front, the chauffeur let all three of them out so that Mr. Murray and Charles could both help Elsie to the pavement. As she looked up at the massive prison towering overhead, the blood drained from her face._

_“Steady on.” Mr. Murray and Charles said, almost unanimously._

_With a determined chin, Elsie almost took the lead of their group, marching up the slushed steps to be greeted by the police officers at the door. Mr. Murray followed right after her, determined to keep the lead and make the necessary introductions._

_It was the smell that Charles shrank at the most. He’d been born and bred for cleanliness, warped by his quaint English mother to starch and scrub until his fingers bled to keep away the plague. The stench of fifth, despair, and pestilence was so vile within Wakefield that it was a wonder the police officers could go home to their wives at night and kiss their children. Twice, Elsie reached up to touch her hand to her nose, her eyes almost watering from the burn of the rank odor. The inner hallways of Wakefield were thin and dimly lit, often crowded by police officers who marched prisoners past like the lot of them were bound for their execution. Charles winced, unable to stop himself from shrinking back as he noticed a man stumbling from the infirmary with half the teeth missing from his mouth. His lips were black and blue, swollen to the point of disrepair upon his face. He looked almost like a political cartoon at this point; Charles had to wonder if the man would ever be able to talk or eat properly again and felt honest pity for him despite knowing he must be a hardened criminal._

_They were made to pause outside a barred hallway, beyond with the sound of animated voices rose and fell as conversation carried on. It was clear this was the area for interviews, but Elsie found herself staggering over to the thin rectangular window to try and get a breath of fresh air. Charles followed her, and the pair of them were given a view of a muddy courtyard laid in stone along which a hard concrete wall divided a thin row of cells without windows. From above, it could be seen as a wing of Wakefield; from below it must surely look like the end of the world._

_“Solitary Confinement.” Mr. Murray added, nearly making Elsie jump as he appeared over their shoulders and gestured to the line of cells. There were about sixteen doors in all, though Charles couldn’t be sure from the angle at which they viewed. There might be more beneath their feet._

_“Solitary-“ Elsie hitched a breath, “Is Thomas there?”_

_“The last cell.” Mr. Murray said, pointing through the slim opening to note that there was a guard standing lone watch where the outer wall of Wakefield met the wing in a ’T’ formation. Even from a distance, Charles could tell that this man was not one to be trifled with, a foreboding figure in in a Lieutenant Colonel’s uniform._

_To think, Thomas was behind that tiny door, locked away in that pathetically small cell.  
It was almost like justice had fled the world. _

_“In.” A police officer commanded, so that the three of them had to abandon their view from the window to step into the long row of barred interview cells. They had to walk single file down the path, their shoulders nearly touching the bars, and Elsie clutched her handbag to her chest as she turned her head left and right to see criminals conversing with their lawyers or their wives. Most were too wrapped up in conversation to give them half an inch of thought, but one or two men were still waiting for their visitors and glared at the Carsons as they passed. Charles glared right back, refusing to be intimidated by common thugs._

_They took nearly the last cell, sitting down at a bare wooden table where three chairs had been drawn up for their convenience. A police officer was already inside, looking undeniably smug even though he was nothing more than a common officer. There was something oily about him- something snide that Charles could not deny set him off and put him on edge. He almost reminded him of Thomas when Thomas had been young and buck wild._

_“I want to say-“ Mr. Murray paused, turning in his seat to address both Elsie and Charles now, “Whatever you may hear or see- I urge you to let me to do the talking. You may find Thomas to be greatly changed.”_

_Elsie caught Charles’ eye, but neither of them spoke. There was a sudden rise in conversation behind them, the sound of cat calls and shrieks as if a fellow inmate had been made a fool of to the delight of the others._

_“Ah-“ Mr. Murray spoke up, “Here he comes.”_

_As one, Elsie and Charles rose, both of them yearning to see what Thomas would look like after nearly a full month spent… in…_

_And suddenly, the world seemed to stop._

_The hardened Lieutenant Colonel Charles had seen from the window led Thomas in, looking oddly protective as he stepped inside the interview cell to let Thomas pass._

_Thomas had his head bowed, but even at the slim angle Charles could see that someone had horrifically marred his face._

_The corners of his mouth had been slit with a knife, or some other barbaric tool, and the result was that bloody scars were now turning Thomas’ face into a barbaric twisted smile. Black thread had been used to stitch up the wounds, so that while they were closed they still looked raw and foreboding. Thomas was pale, emaciated and thin- his normally neatly parted hair a black mop over his face and his navy clothes practically hanging off his shoulders. Most terrifying of all, his forearms were locked in heavy iron metal vambraces. They almost looked like devices of torture, surely painful to wear over sensitive scarred flesh._

_Elsie was speechless, staggered and horrified as she reached up blindly in an act of emotional despair to try and touch Thomas. The Lieutenant Colonel blocked her way, so that her fingers almost brushed his chest._

_“Do not touch the prisoners, Ma’am.” The Colonel commanded. Elsie looked ready to crumple at such a cruel slamming of the gate, staggered as Thomas was slowly lead to his seat and made to sit down by the Colonel’s guiding hands._

_“Barsette, get out.” The Colonel said to the police officer who sat in the corner of the cell._

_“Why, am I hurting anyone?” The officer replied with such cheek that had he been underneath Charles’ supervision Charles might have smacked him round the face._

_As it stood, the Colonel clearly had an anger problem, and in a sudden move that nearly made Elsie emit a tiny shriek, the Colonel whipped around to grab Barsette by the front of his uniform. He all but drug the man from the interview cell, flinging him out into the hallway so that he nearly banged into the bars lining the cells opposite them._

_“When I tell you to get out, you get out!” The colonel roared, spit flying from the corner of his mouth, “You useless lump!”_

_“No need to get shifty!” Barsette cried out, “I asked an honest question-“_

_“An you’ll get an honest answer!” The Colonel had a thicker brogue than Elsie, “You’re the worst officer that ever graced this institution, an’ if I had my way you’d be behind bars with the rest of ‘em. Now get out of my sight before I lock you up in solitary!”_

_Barsette seemed to realize that the Colonel might just very well make good on his threat but stormed off with clear taunt in his walk._

_The shouting, banging, and violence seemed to rattle Elsie. Her eyes were as wide as saucers at this point, her fingers trembling from where she clutched the edge of the table before her. Charles wished he could hold and comfort her, but knew he could not. They were bound by a series of different rules now, in a world ruled by apathy. The Colonel came to stand behind Thomas and braced his shoulders with heavy hands. Thomas was so slim and slight that the Colonel’s hands seemed to swallow the edges of his frame._

_Charles thought of his dream- of an infant swathed in white kicked and squirming to be held- and gazed at the man before him, broken and exhausted. Frightened. Abused._

_His heart felt like it was breaking in that moment, aching inside his breast for justice._

_“Thomas-“ Elsie bleated out, wringing her hands before her. Mr. Murray cut her off._

_“Mrs. Carson.” He said, warning her again, “Allow me to do the talking.”_

_The man looked decidedly rattled: “Who has done this to you?” He asked._

_For a moment Thomas said nothing, eyes downcast so that he only stared at the table. the guard behind him squeezed his shoulders as if tempting Thomas to speak up._

_“Mista Muwwy.” Thomas’ words were incredibly slurred; he could barely speak through his wounds. Each flick of his tongue and teeth seemed to hurt him, “Do you have noos for meh-?”_

_He did not even acknowledge Charles and Elsie; it was as if he was too ashamed to do so._

_“…Mr. Barrow.” Mr. Murray clenched his hands for a moment; Charles could tell he was angered by this sudden change in circumstance. He reached into his briefcase, pulling forth a document to slide it across the table so that Thomas could take it. It seemed Thomas was so weak that he could not even lift his hands to the table, and so the Colonel behind Thomas reached out to take the paper in hand and drag it across the wood till it was resting before Thomas in the garish fluorescent light._

_Thomas’ eyes scanned the paper. The Colonel behind him read as well._

_“We’ve come here today because we have a solution for your problem.” Mr. Murray fiddled with his briefcase, pulling out a ball point pen which he sat on the table with a decisive ‘tap’. The whole time, Charles could not drag his eyes away from Thomas’ wounds._

_He could not help but think of Thomas’ face before, how handsome he’d been. How debonaire._

_Charles felt as if Thomas had been robbed of his very life by this gruesome act. He could not help but think of Tom Branson, who would no doubt set the curtains on fire once he found out someone had put a knife to Thomas’ cheek._

_Would they ever know peace again?_

_“You have before you a paper that would put your terms of release into Mr. Carson’s hands.” Mr. Murray explained. Still, Thomas would not meet his eyes, “All it would require is your signature.” At this, he slid the pen across the table. Once more, the Colonel took it halfway to finish its journey._

_Slowly, pathetically weak, Thomas reached up with a heavy hand to try and flip through the pages of his document. He rested his vambrace against the table with a heavy ‘thunk’._

_“Adopfun?” Thomas mumbled through his wounds.  
It was at this point that Thomas finally looked up to meet Charles and Elsie’s eyes. It was as if he was staring at him with the eyes of a china doll- glazed lifeless things that were watering over from strain and stress. He did not seem to understand his change in circumstances. _

_“You are correct.” Mr. Murray agreed, “In order for Mr. Carson to assume legal rights to your mental welfare, you need to be adopted. I’ve done a bit of research; you were disowned by your own family correct?”_

_Thomas nodded slowly._

_“You are completely within rights to be adopted by another, albeit it is very rare for an adult to go through adoption outside of business circumstances in our world.” Mr. Murray said, “It’s not so rare in the East as it is here. But it does happen. The Carson’s are eager for you to be released and cared for at Downton, as are the Crawley family. Mr. Branson in particular-“_

_Thomas flinched at the sound of Branson’s name._

_“I believe this could be a solution to all your problems.” Mr. Murray said decisively._

_Silence reigned in the interview cell as Thomas flipped through one page after another. It seemed he was not so much reading as he was thinking, and when he looked up again there was an exhausted look in his eyes that was much deserved._

_“What deh is i’?” Thomas mumbled. Mr. Murray did not seem to understand Thomas at first, so it was the colonel who answered._

_“The eleventh.” The man said. Charles noted his name badge read ‘Fletcher’. Fletcher still had his hands defensively upon Thomas’ shoulders as if he expected the first guard to come back and try to rouse an attack._

_“…Five dehs.” Thomas murmured._

_“Correct-“ For the initial date of release was the sixteenth of March. “But we could get you released today if you are willing to sign this contract.”_

_Thomas still did not pick up the pen.  
Elsie could not take it any more. _

_“For heaven’s sake, Thomas-!” She pleaded, her voice straining from emotion. She looked ready to weep, and it burned Charles that she had been harmed so in this process. “Please… Please let us take you from this horrible place.”_

_But Thomas shook his head slowly, and slid back the paper on the table.  
Elsie blinked, taken aback; Charles watched, ashamed, as a few tears fell from the corners of her eyes. _

_“…Why not?” She asked, her voice as croaky as a bullfrogs, “Is it …. Is it us? Is it me?” She asked, gesturing pitifully to herself. Thomas was still shaking his head._

_“I was a scapegoat for my famiwee.” It was difficult to understand Thomas, but he spoke slowly, “Even my own muver forgot me in her pwuayers… I have no desire to go frew vat wif anuvah famiwee. I’m sowwy but … dis is my just deserts. If I finish out de week on my own hand, I do so as a man. If I weeve today as your adopted son, it won’t be done in wuv but in despuwation. And I just can’t do dat, Mrs. Hoos. I’m sowwy.” He said again._

_Elsie had to brush a few more hasty tears that fell down her cheeks, her fingers trembling. Her heart lay between them on that piece of paper which Thomas so somberly pushed away._

_“Please, Thomas-“ She begged, her voice a tight whisper, “Please don’t make me watch them do this to you. Not when I love you as as on. Give me a chance-“ She clasped her hands in prayer._

_Thomas looked at her, eyes blazing with such incredible strength in that moment that he almost looked like the man they’d once known- the under butler determined to get through anything life flung at him._

_“It’s not dat I wouldn’t give you a chance.” Thomas said, and for a moment Elsie’s breath stilled as her eyes grew wide again, “It’s dat it wouldn’t be wight. Don’t you see? If I were to ever be adopted by anuvah famiwee, shouldn’t it be done in wuv?”_

_Elsie wiped her eyes, slightly chastised by the brutal honesty of Thomas’ words. It was incredible he was in a sober state of mind despite the pain and trial he’d been put through._

_“In a perfect world, yes.” Elsie agreed, her voice still raspy, “But this is done in love-“_

_“I fink de world is what you make it Mrs. Hoos.” Thomas cut her off, wise beyond his years, “In five dehs I’ll be fwee-“_

_“With horrific scarring upon your face-!” Charles could no longer keep silent. Thomas seemed burned by his voice and looked away. “God only knows what else they’ll do to you given the chance-“_

_“I accept dier punishment.” Was all Thomas said in soft reply, “It is my just deserts for wiving my wife wivout fanks and humiwity. Fank you Mr. Carson but my answer is no.”_

__It is my just deserts for living my life without thanks and humility_ — was it conceivably possible such words had come from Thomas Barrow’s mouth? _

_“Thomas…” Charles was flabbergasted by that statement alone. What could he say?_

_“I’m sowwy Mr. Cason.” He said, “But dis is my battle. I fight it awone.”_

_“You do not fight it alone.” Charles assured him at once, for thought Thomas knew nothing of it there was an army behind him at home backing his corner. Everyone from Tom Branson to Mrs. Patmore, each of them on his side as he went through this trial. Perhaps it was easy for him to think he was alone when the door was closed on his solitary confinement cell, but the fact of the matter was that he was not._

_Soon he would be reminded. In less than a week, Charles was determined Thomas would remember himself and come to his senses.  
And get better stitches. _

_“Den what more could I want for?” Thomas asked, and though it must have pained him greatly the tiniest smile graced his scarred and stitched face._

_Charles was touched in that moment.  
Touched by the tiny smile. Thomas had given it to him even though it had brought him physical pain. A small slice of normalcy amid the chaos and insanity of Wakefield. A remembrance of a time when all three of them had smiled without care in the servant’s hall of Downton. _

_Charles was determined to see that smile again._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that was probably just a little upsetting but I do what I do with great reason. Thomas will be alright, and the next chapter will see us not only released from jail but under the protection of a most understanding man.   
> And Butterbean will be coming too. 
> 
> Please, feel free to review if you have any questions or concerns. I read every comment posted.


	22. Safe House

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas decides to pay homage to the shrine of a Lilac Persian cat with a grotesque underbite named "Moonpie"... For reasons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next week I am moving across the country to Washington with my best friend to start a new chapter in my life. This is a relatively lengthy process, It'll take me about five days to get there. Because of this, I will try to keep on schedule posting chapters but may be slightly behind. I ask for your patience.

The morning of March 16th dawned calm and gray. Not a sound could be heard from Solitary Row. 

For five days prior, Lieutenant Colonel Joseph Fletcher had kept almost constant watch over the door to Solitary Cell number 16, beyond which Thomas recovered, and when he could not he had Lieutenant Francis Maddin step in. The pair of them had been diligent, and though a certain conniving C.O. had attempted to sneak by once or twice, he’d never got a word to Thomas in edge wise. 

Barsette had been investigated by Fletcher’s demands despite not being found at the scene of the crime. He’d blamed the entire attack on an inmate by the name of Peterson, who had been found knocked unconscious at the scene with a bloody officer’s knife in his possession. Barsette had claimed that Peterson had stolen his knife when he’d made his final rounds in maximum security before being demoted to C.O. by Colonel Fletcher later that day. Peterson had claimed that Barsette had not only done the attacking himself but had let him out of his cell along with two other inmates by the name of Salvador and Bronson. This, however, seemed impossible to other officers when Bronson was not only suffering from liver damage but was in such crippling pain that he could hardly walk (the man had always had stomach issues). Peterson had protested that Barrow had kicked Bronson in the stomach, thus causing the man’s failing liver to start acting up again. Bronson, however, had said that he’d been awoken in the middle of the night in horrific pain, and had known nothing about the attack until he’d been questioned. Salvador had backed his story, and had said that Peterson had bragged about stealing an officer’s knife the night before when they’d had supper in the prisoner’s canteen. 

Fletcher had swallowed none of this, but without tangible proof that it had been Barsette to commit the attack on Barrow he’d been unable to enact the final hammer of justice. Still, as Fletcher had watched Barsette lummox about with other C.O’s and make a fool of himself on patrol, he’d sworn that some way somehow he would have Barsette face justice… even if it took him twenty years to do so. For the first time in his life, Fletcher found himself trusting the story of an incarcerated murderer over a decorated officer, and it made his stomach clench. 

 

Thomas had been left absolutely alone, by both guard and prisoners. Under Fletcher’s constant supervision, he’d done nothing but eat (what he could) and sleep (when he could) so that five days had whizzed by simply because he’d been too confused to register them. Butterbean had known something was wrong, and had stayed curled beneath Thomas’ chin when Fletcher had come in to bring him meals or force him to shave. With his mouth in pain, Thomas had found it impossible to concentrate on holding the razor still, so Fletcher had shaved him out of an act of good will, and had always been sure to stay clear of the nicks now stitched at the corners of his mouth. He’d sworn up and down that Thomas’ mouth was in rather good condition for an attempted Glasgow Grin- apparently the scars could stretch all the way up to the ears. But Thomas was slightly vain in nature and felt like a monster now every time he felt at the corners of his mouth with his fingers. How could Tom love him now? How could he return to Downton and be a butler? In service, footmen had to be pleasing to the eye. Thomas could remember when he’d first started service as a young lad that footmen had even powdered their hair and shaved three times a day just to keep looking as spiffy as possible. Anyone with scars or unsightly blemishes had been unable to scale the ranks of service- why would families want to see such gruesome visages in their sitting rooms? Burdened by these awful, nagging thoughts, Thomas had found no solace in his encroaching release date. 

So when Fletcher opened the door to his cell early on March 16th, Thomas lay absolutely still in his bed while Butterbean chittered softly underneath the neck of his shirt. 

“… Get on up, Barrow.” Fletcher said softly. “It’s time.” 

Thomas sat up, following Fletcher’s orders in an act of habit. He felt exhausted without coffee or tea to rouse him. Butterbean was slipping dangerously low in his shirt, nearly diving into his belly button. Thomas knew that he could not leave the mouse behind; they were both prisoners in this place. He therefore carefully pulled Butterbean out and made to stick him in his pocket. 

Fletcher narrowed his eyes. 

“Are you seriously going to take that thing out of here?” Fletcher asked. 

“Yes.” Thomas mumbled. 

Fletcher sighed, exasperated, and held out his hand. “Give him to me.” 

Trusting, Thomas handed the mouse over. Fletcher stuck Butterbean in his uniform pocket, then took Thomas by the upper arm. 

“Up you get.” Fletcher commanded, and took Thomas at last from his cell. 

They were completely alone as they walked through the stone courtyard arm in arm. Thomas found himself looking up at the sky, and saw that the dawn was a cool soft pink with just the hints of yellow beginning to grace the overcast clouds. It was probably five in the morning, maybe a little bit after; Wakefield was unnervingly quiet with its prisoners asleep in their cells. 

Thomas shivered in the cold morning air. Fresh snow crunched under his feet. He wondered when the snow would stop falling; when the grass would finally get a chance to grow and the birds to return with Spring. 

Inside the prison, Thomas was taken back to the receiving area where he’d once stripped down and been forced to put on the vambraces. The process was much the same in reverse, with Fletcher and Maddin taking over his extraction so that he could bathe and redress. The water was frigidly cold at first until Fletcher let it warm up, and Thomas kept his eyes on the ground as he bathed before the man. He had so much grime on him he felt like he was scrubbing away paint as he washed himself again and again and again. What was more, the metal vambraces were finally taken off after a month of staying on his skin. His arms were a light shade of green from the poor metal rubbing against his skin. He wondered when the color would fade… perhaps in a week, perhaps longer. His suicide scars stuck out to him, reminding him of just all that he’d been through. He washed his hair, he allowed Fletcher to shave his face, and he redressed again. 

He had arrived in his livery, and so that was what he was forced to put on once again. His hands shook as he put on his pants, his trousers, his shirtsleeves and tunic- it all felt so bizarre. He could remember wearing these clothes; he knew what they were for- but he was so used to his prison jumpsuit that all the buttons and trimmings just felt… pompous. Like he was wearing a baroque outfit from France. 

Maddin gave him a comb and some pomade, and so Thomas styled his hair for the first time in a month with a dirty mirror. He could remember feeling much the same way when he’d returned home from war. Of course, he’d been taken care of in a hospital caravan, tended to by simpering nurses and kind doctors that had informed him what a hero he was. 

He wasn’t a hero now. 

As Thomas shrugged on his livery jacket, he was given back his leather cuffs and laced them on with trembling hands. Once more, his scars were hidden beneath wrappings of decency and value. Was there anything besides the nicks at the corners of his mouth to suggest that he’d been in prison for a month? 

Thomas stared at his reflection in the dirty spotted mirror and wondered. 

“Your effects.” Fletcher said, rummaging through the cardboard box that had once held Thomas’ livery to pull out his pocket watch from Lord Grantham and silver lighter. Thomas took them both, staring at the pocket watch as it ticked merrily away. 

He opened it up. It was five thirty-one in the morning.   
He pocketed it along with his lighter, but still did not feel like himself. 

“A Mr. Tom Branson had money sent to you in case you needed it on the way home.” Fletcher pulled out an envelop from his pocket, Opening it to reveal a crisp pound. With this amount of money, Thomas could easily buy a first class train ticket; but would he be given the choice? “Your employers had a chauffeur sent to drive you home.” 

Clearly not. 

“…I brought this for you.” Fletcher said, and Thomas watched amazed as the man pulled off a thick flannel scarf in Scottish plaid red from around his neck. He folded the scarf in half, looping it around Thomas’ neck so that (if he held it up) it could hide the scars about his mouth. 

“Use that to hide your scars.” Fletcher said. 

“…Fank’ you.” Thomas mumbled, unable to pronounce the words right with his mouth inflamed, “Fo everyfing.” 

“It wasn’t enough.” Fletcher said, shaking his head. 

“I’ was.” Thomas said, for Fletcher in his eyes was a saint.   
Maddin tipped his hat to Thomas, and Fletcher led him away from the receiving wing. 

He felt so horribly strange without metal vambraces, stiff clothes, or handcuffs. He felt bizarrely light, as if he’d lost too much weight and didn’t know how to walk properly anymore. His wounds made him woozy— he probably had an infection— and he desperately wanted to lay back down in his cell. 

How queer, now that he had a chance to leave, he wanted to hide again. 

Outside the front of Wakefield, snow lay in a dirty brown blanket around the circular entrance. A few morning shift guards were at the gate, keeping it closed, and Fletcher walked him all the way across the courtyard to the other side. Thomas was relieved to see Barsette was not among the morning guards, and they opened the door for the Colonel without another word. 

“C’mon.” Fletcher muttered, leading him out. 

The city of Wakefield was quiet, and the area outside the prison was nothing more than manicured lawn and stone driveway. A distance ahead, a gleaming black motorcar sat puttering in idle. Thomas noticed the number plate: YK10SMR. It was the Crawley family car. 

He looked up at the back window, and noted no one was sitting noticeably in the back seat. He looked left and right, to see if perhaps Tom had just gotten out of the car and was wandering in the clipped fields. 

But Tom wasn’t there. Tom hadn’t come to see him be released.   
Maybe Tom was ashamed of him. 

 

“Here, take the little fucker.” Fletcher cursed, and Thomas was startled when Fletcher reached into his pocket to pull Butterbean out. He pushed the mouse into Thomas’ hands and Thomas cupped the mouse to his chest before putting him carefully inside his trouser pocket. “And may god bless ‘im.” 

Thomas was unsure of what to do now. Should he… should he just leave? Walk away? Did he need permission to do so? 

“Go on.” Fletcher muttered, and before Thomas could change his mind and run back into the prison he swatted Thomas in the small of the back to start his march forward. Twice as Thomas walked towards the motorcar he looked over his shoulder to see Fletcher standing outside the prison gates. He kept firm watch over Thomas as Thomas walked along the side of the car. 

Thomas did not even think to pull the scarf up over his mouth; the backseat was empty, the front seat only held the chauffeur who’d never thought much of him. The man looked thoroughly bored, waiting with his chin in hand and elbow propped against the window as he glanced up to see Thomas at the passenger door. 

“…Jesus Christ.” The chauffeur swore, disgusted by Thomas’ appearance. “…Get in.” He jerked his thumb; Thomas dumbly opened the door and got inside the front seat despite no one sitting in the back. 

As soon as Thomas closed the car door, the chauffeur took off. 

For a moment Thomas said absolutely nothing, watching Wakefield countryside roll into heavier green; a slight barrier of forest separated the prison from the rest of the city and when they re appeared on the other side there was a great expanse of cobblestone which caused their car to slow. Churches, libraries, office buildings, and parks cut left and right; their only divider was railroad track to suggest there was a train station nearby. 

Thomas realized that the chauffeur’s disgust was just the tip of the iceberg. Mrs. Hughes and Mr. Carson had both seen his shame and had no doubt told the others. What would Tom think of him now? What would any of them think? Thomas didn’t know if he could return to Downton in this state. He felt fragile, jarred, and frightened. He felt like he was being pushed back into society too quickly, like no one was listening to his needs. 

He didn’t want to go back to Downton. He wanted to run away and recover in private; wanted to hide like the little harvest mouse in his pocket. 

“… Take me to de stashun.” Thomas said, words slurred by stitches. 

“Lord Grantham-“ The chauffeur started up, no doubt about to tell him that he’d been given strict orders. But Thomas didn’t give a fuck about strict orders— he wanted to be taken to the train station. 

He turned on the chauffeur, eyes blazing and tone violent: “Take me to de fuckin’ stashun!” He shouted. The chauffeur jumped, eyes wide and startled. 

He slammed his foot on the gas, and the car jutted forward. 

The train station was in the heart of Wakefield City, and all the early morning traffic seemed to be focused there with people getting in and out of motorcars to catch the first train. Thomas didn’t know where the train was bound to, but he was getting on it. He jerked open the motorcar door before the chauffeur had even rolled to a complete stop, grabbing his new scarf and hiding his face with it; he looked almost like a peculiar thief about to attempt a robbery with his hand over his mouth to hide his visage. 

“You tell no one where you took me!” Thomas warned the chauffeur who scoffed at the idea of being the unwilling accomplice. 

“I’m not keepin’ secrets for your sorry sake.” The chauffeur sneered. 

Thomas dropped his scarf, revealing his scars again. The chauffeur bristled at the sight. “You tell anyone where you took me, and I’ll carve your face like dey did mine.” Thomas spat. 

The chauffeur paled. 

Thomas slammed the motorcar door, holding his face behind his scarf again; the chauffeur took off without another word, clearly glad to be shot of Thomas. Thomas fumbled for the pound in his pocket, staggering into the back of the ticket line so that he was the very last one to approach the conductor who was tearing ticket stubs so that an attendant could stamp them. Thomas watched the conductor reach the end of the ticket roll with a woman two ahead of him, and grimaced as the man behind her scoffed and stormed back to his car. Clearly there was no more room. 

Still. 

Thomas stumbled forward, shaking as he offered the conductor all his money. 

“Pwease sir-“ Thomas said, words muffled behind his scarf and hand, “Pwease, I have to board this train. It’s an emergency-“ 

“I’m sorry sir.” The conductor shook his head as the attendant went back inside the ticket booth with the emptied roll and the bruised hand stamp. “There’s no more room on the train-“ 

Thomas dropped his scarf; the conductor grimaced, taken aback by the sight of his raw stitched mouth. 

“Pwease.” Thomas repeated, near tears in his urgency, “Pwease, I beg of you, you don’t understand. I have to get out of here.” 

“Dear god.” The conductor looked over his shoulder, noticing the baggage cart. “I- all I have is the baggage cart- the train’s bound for London you’ll be back there for hours!” 

“I don’t care!” Thomas blubbered. “Pwease sir, dis is urgent.” 

The conductor looked back out at the now vacant platform, to the train attendant starting to whistle and wave a yellow flag of warning. The train was puffing, hot steam billowing into the air as it began to suck up power from a coal engine in the front. 

The conductor beckoned him with haste. “Follow me!” 

He took Thomas to the back end of the train, opening a private compartment that housed nothing more than a few valises for upper class men and traveling coats. It wasn’t the baggage cart proper; an attendant might have sat here for quicker customer service. Thomas clambered in, squashing himself between coats and trunks. 

“Stay down.” The conductor urged him, “I’ll come back for you when the train has stopped.” And with that he closed the door. 

Thomas was swallowed up by darkness, but the train had a deep warmth to it that helped heal the chill in his bones. Butterbean was squirming in his pocket, cramped, and Thomas helped him out to cup him to his chest in the dark. The mouse stood on its hind paws, looking about to investigate his curious surroundings. 

“I can’t go back, Butterbean…” Thomas mumbled, tucking the mouse close to his chest so that Butterbean could crawl over the gold buttons of his livery, “I can’t. I’m not ready yet.” 

In his exhaustion, Thomas slipped off back to sleep with coats for blankets and trunks for pillows. The rocking of the train beneath him soothed him to sleep, and he soon found himself blissfully unaware of his surroundings while Butterbean hid beneath his livery and chittered for crumbs. There would be no lunch for either of them today; not until Thomas found it himself. What had first felt like a good idea was now starting to feel like a very poor decision, but Thomas reasoned that at least he had a pound to work on as he figured out what he wanted to do. He could always buy another train ticker properly… or beg a conductor again. 

When the door to the back opened once more, Thomas was jerked from dreamless sleep into sunlight as the conductor welcomed him wordlessly to London. It seemed all the other passengers had disembarked by the time Thomas had been let out, for there was no one on the station. Trainboys were hauling carts into the baggage check, arguing with one another loudly about where large trunks should go. One in particular looked close to having a stroke over the whole process. 

The conductor led him out of the train platform, treating him much like a lost passenger as Thomas hid his face beneath his flannel scarf. London was completely unlike Wakefield, full to the brim with people who pushed roughly past him on their way to work. 

Thomas was jostled and bumped in the crowd, absolutely clueless as to where he was going but trusting his own two feet. London was a divided city; Thomas’ train seemed to have taken him to the sect of elephant and Castle just south of the Thames. Elephant and Castle itself was in Southwark, a massive shopping district often referred to as the “Piccadilly of South London”, and Thomas was gawped at by multitudes of rich men and women as his flannel scarf kept slipping. This area was too packed for his own good; Thomas knew for a fact that he was generating too much attention. 

The last thing he wanted was to be approached by the police. 

At the arc of Elephant and Castle, one had the choice to choose three massive streets from which to branch out of: Lamberth North, London Street, or Borough High Street. Thomas chose the road with the least amount of foot traffic, the whispers of shocked women and confused men following him; London Street offered him as much promise as any, dwindling from massive shopping centers to expansive green lawns and cathedral like buildings; workers were walking back and forth from the buildings… Thomas paused, watching South London Polytechnic Institute go about its day. This was a technical school for both men and women, based on the precepts of building skill knowledge in the mass of London’s growing work force. One could learn a trade here; anything from manufacturing to laundry and upholstery. 

Feeling like a fool, Thomas wandered through the grounds of the institute. The snow had been freshly scraped off the sidewalks, and fine young trees were determinedly sprouting up. The university was divided by a small road which seemed to be used for local deliveries and school motorcars; it was quieter than the main stretch so Thomas took it. 

Where the fuck was he walking to? 

Thomas almost felt like weeping as he stumbled down the cobblestone. He kept trying to figure out what he wanted to do, but it just… it just… 

So say he turned around, stomped right back to the train station, and caught the first train home. He’d be late, and everyone would know he’d run away. Tom, Lord Grantham, Mr. Carson— all of them would no doubt be told by the irate chauffeur that he’d threatened and then bailed for god knows where. 

Say that he just kept walking. Where would he end up by the end of the night with only a pound in his pocket. What if he was arrested again for loitering or something else equally stupid? 

Thomas felt like wolves were following his heels. 

Why hadn’t Tom been in that car? Had he been ashamed of Thomas? Had he felt like their love was too dangerous to continue with a prison sentence now on Thomas’ back? Or had he been kept away by the family, forced to stay behind as the chauffeur had driven Thomas’ back to Downton. If so, why? Had they been afraid of the police seeing Tom in the car and making connections…? Or had they put their foot down again and refused to allow their love to continue? 

Thomas felt like his head was spinning. He wanted to sit down but knew it was a bad idea; someone would think he was a squatter and call the police. 

Shit, technically he was a squatter. 

Thomas had come upon the end of the institute’s campus, and was now faced with housing districts. He took to the first road he saw, Lancaster street, and was far from disappointed as he stumbled down the quiet lane. On the left hand side, a small park stretched out with benches and flower bushes that were yet to flourish properly. On the right, mansions of Queen Anne style sat sprawling. Most were multiple stories, in odd gaudy colors like orange, yellow, green, and rich maroon. One or two had signs out in front of them, denoting a business inside instead of a family residence. Thomas watched them pass with dull interest. 

_“W. Austin & Sons Limited, Funeral Directors”_   
_“Berry Bros & Rudd, Wine & Spirit Merchant”_   
_“Toye & Co, Regalia & Medals”_   
_“Dr. Robert Kinsey M.D, Private Practice”_   
_“R. Durtnell & Son Limited, Builders”_

Thomas paused, turning back around. 

He walked a few paces down the street, staring at the second to last house decorated in soft blues and greens. It…   
Had it been? 

He glanced left and right, crossing the street when he saw no motorcars were coming. His heart was beginning to pound in his chest as he reached the sign which was stuck out in the front of the house behind a fanciful black metal fence. 

_“Dr. Robert Kinsey M.D, Private Practice”_

Thomas stared at the sign for what was probably a solid minute, absolutely shocked that in his confusion he had managed to find the one person in the whole of England who could offer him help. 

He felt it was fate. That this above all was the reason he’d gotten on a random train out of Wakefield. It felt predestined to him in that moment that the train should take him to England; that it should stop and Elephant and Castle, that it should offer him a close proximity to Lancaster Road… and this house. 

Dr. Kinsey’s house. 

Thomas opened the metal gate, stumbling up the front steps and falling upon the front door which was artfully painted. He hammered upon it, not even bothering with the doorbell; upon seeing it he rang it several times. He stumbled back, wiping his mouth with the back of his shaking hand and waited frightened for what would happen next. 

He saw a shadow moving behind the quarted glass, cut into diamonds patterns. He took another step back, amazed when he saw a maid in a lace cap and frilly apron. She beheld him, utterly confused, and when his flannel scarf dropped she gasped horrified. Thomas seized forward, nearly grabbing her by the arms until she had the sense to step back and yank the door closed on him. 

“Pwease!” Thomas howled, banging on the glass with a fist, “Pwease I have to see Dr. Kinsey!” 

“Get away from the door!” The maid cried out angrily from the other side. 

“Pwease!” Thomas yelled again, desperate Dr. Kinsey hear his cry, “Pwease! I beg of you, if you have any pity in your heart-“ 

But it seemed she didn’t, at least not for him, for she cried out, “Get gone or I’ll call the police, do you hear!?” 

Oh he heard alright. 

Terrified of being taken back to jail, Thomas stumbled down the steps of the house and dove to the left to go around the side. He cowered against the backboards, sinking down onto the cobblestone between Dr. Kinsey’s house and the one to the right. He hid behind a dustbin, afraid someone would come calling for him. But as he waited and an hour passed, no police officer came to find him. 

Dr. Kinsey didn’t come either. 

Thomas felt incredibly hot again, exhausted by his extensive travel after a month of being cooped up into a room smaller than a walk in closet. Thomas closed his eyes, breathing softly; Butterbean poked his head out once or twice, chittering softly. The cawing of crows overhead seemed to frighten him in keeping quiet lest he be found out and eaten. 

Thomas shifted, blinked… and it was dark. 

~*~

Halfway across England, another servant was biting the hard wire. 

 

“Slipped off?!” Tom demanded, irate, “What do you mean he slipped off?!” 

The chauffeur was sweating bullets at this point, pinned between Tom whose face was as pale as porcelain and Robert who was having trouble comprehending how servant’s could all be so troublesome at the exact same time. Couldn’t they do it in shifts? Cora was likewise without an answer, staring to her husband and waiting for his confirmation that this insane dream would soon be over.

“It’s as I said, Mr. Branson.” The chauffeur addressed both Tom and everyone else in the room; Mary and Henry were both agape on the couch. Mr. Carson’s normally stout face was bloodless. “He got on a train. I don’t know to where, he told me not to follow or tell you! He threatened to carve me face up if I did; though it’s a wonder he can talk-“ The man muttered at this. 

“And you just let him run away?! When he’s frightened?!” Tom 's mind was full of every dark and vile corner between Wakefield and the border of France, wondering where on earth Thomas could have slipped off to in such a state. Tom didn’t think Thomas would have the ability to get on a train at this point; surely he’d be too tired, too confused. 

Apparently not. 

The chauffeur flustered for an answer but found none, falling silent as Tom began to pace back and forth, raking fingers through his hair. 

Today had started out so god damn promising; Tom had barely been able to sleep the night before, delighted by the prospect of seeing Thomas once again. He’d decided that come hell or high water, they would share his bed the following night and would sleep soundly wrapped up in one another’s arms. Tom had made plans to doctor Thomas himself, to care for him until every tension knot in Thomas’ body had melted from the sheer force of Tom’s love. But it seemed that Thomas wasn’t interested in being pampered— or maybe he was and he just wasn’t thinking straight. God how he’d wanted to be in the car when it had pulled up to Wakefield, but the Mr. Murray and Robert had advised against it. The circumstances were so fragile surrounding Thomas’ release that any sign of shifty behavior might result in him getting yanked right back into his cell. 

So Tom had wrote Thomas a note, leaving it in the backseat of the car; but now that he thought about it if Thomas was too numb to think clearly would he then make the mistake of not looking on the seat next to him? 

Probably. 

“I don’t see where he could have gone-“ Ten thousand trains probably came and went out of a single station, and all across England! Christ it could be anyone’s guess at this point, “Why wouldn’t he have wanted to return to me?” Tom demanded, turning around to look at Mary for an answer (though she could hardly give it to him) “Do you- Do you think he’s angry at me?” 

“No, of course not.” Mary assured him, rising off the couch to try and make sense of it all, “He’s just frightened and confused.” 

“This is a nightmare.” Tom raked his hands through his hair. Robert sat back down on the couch, stumped. “This is an absolute nightmare.” 

“Then what are we sitting here for?” Henry demanded, gesturing to both Tom and Mary. 

The three of them stared at one another, the time already ticking against them. 

“We have to go to Wakefield.” Tom declared, turning and making a bee line for the door. 

“I’ll get the car.” Henry said, rising up and following Tom out. 

“I’m coming with you.” Mary said, following her husband out. Her mother found this just a tad bit unrealistic. 

“Mary.” She chastised. 

“I’ll be another set of eyes and ears.” Mary declared with a shrug, as if they were going on a fox hunt and nothing more, “The more we have the better.” 

“I-“ The chauffeur stuttered, desperate to regain his standing in the conversation. “I believe he caught the train sir!” 

“Oh what do you know!” Tom spat, furious, “You didn’t even get out the damn car!”   
And with that he stormed out of the library. 

~*~ 

Thomas felt oddly cramped.   
His heart was starting to pick up its pace as he took deeper breathes; the smell of aging garbage and wet stone was filling his nose.   
Wait. Garbage? 

He started, coming to in a slight shock. Thomas suddenly realized that he was not in his cell at Wakefield. That he was in some kind of alleyway, hiding behind a dust bin. He was frightened for a moment, completely forgetting where he was. But memories trickled back to him, and suddenly Thomas remembered that he was in London. That he’d found Dr. Kinsey's practice, and had tried to enter only to be rebuffed by the maid. 

Thomas scrambled, reaching into his vest pocket to pull out his pocket watch in the gloom. 

It was six at night. 

“Jesus christ.” Thomas swore, absolutely shocked. He’d slept what… five… six hours? Talk about a nap- he felt incredibly sweaty and dirty which might have something to do with the fact that he had a fever and was hiding behind a dustbin. 

Thomas tried to stumble back up, and accidentally fell onto his hands and knees. Poor Butterbean, who’d been sleeping in Thomas’ vest, tumbled right out and fell onto the cobblestone with an irate squeak. Thomas scooped him back up at once, putting him into his trouser pocket as he staggered to his feet. 

He heard the door open at the front of the house and nervously flattened himself against the side lest he be seen. 

He could hear talking, animated chatter, the sound of a woman laughing.   
Thomas watched as the maid that had slammed the door on him left work, her apron folded over her arm and a starched daydress on. She was running, clearly trying to catch the bus. 

Thomas heard a familiar voice calling out after her, “Have a good time!” 

The maid waved to someone Thomas could not see, and was gone. 

Thomas took one step forward, then another, tentative not to be seen even though the maid was surely halfway up the street by now determined to be on time to where ever she was going. Leaving work early- she was surely meeting someone for dinner or going to a special event. Maybe there was a fair in town? 

Thomas came back around the front of the house to see that the windows were glowing with light. Clearly someone was inside. 

Thomas went back up the front steps, tripping on the third step so that he nearly fell on his face. Back on the porch, Thomas nearly approached the front door and rang the door bell. He hid his face with Fletcher’s flannel scarf, fearful another maid was going to open the door and panic when they saw he was back. 

Thomas could see someone coming up to the door, golden light cut off by a darkened human shape. Thomas trembled ominous, breath hitching behind his flannel scarf as the door unlocked and opened. 

Dr. Kinsey was inside, a pair of wire rim spectacles atop his head nestled in dark brown curls. He stared at Thomas, lost. 

He didn’t seem to register who Thomas was. He looked confused like he recognized Thomas but couldn’t place from where. 

Thomas dropped his scarf, letting it fall to the porch. Dr. Kinsey gaped. 

“I didn’t know what to do-!” Thomas babbled, hysterical. He gestured to himself, to the house, to Dr. Kinsey. “I didn’t-! I didn’t-!” 

He burst into wild tears, almost screaming into his hands as he cupped them to his mouth. He could feel the seems of his stitches begin to strain, and he howled into his hands as he bent halfway over and began to shake. 

“Thomas?!” Dr. Kinsey finally blurted out, nearly staggered to the point of speechlessness. He reached out and grabbed Thomas with both hands when Thomas did not answer, pulling him over the threshold into a fine foyer laden with antique furniture and a Persian rug. Kinsey stuck his head out the door, looking left and right rapidly before jerking his head back in and slamming the door shut as if he thought someone might be following Thomas in the dusky gloom. 

“Are you being followed?” Kinsey demanded, turning back around and taking Thomas in his arms; Thomas would not pull his hands away from his mouth, tasting copper on his tongue. He was so tired- his head was raging- he’d only just woken up from sleeping nearly half the day away and all he wanted was to go back to bed. 

He took Thomas’ hands in his own, gently prying them back to see Thomas’ bloody mouth, stitched but torn, “Dear god- we have to call the police- we need to get you an ambulance or-“ 

“NO!” Thomas cried out in a panic, petrified by the thought of being forced to endure more policemen. “No, God I beg you! No powice! Not ever again! I never want to see a powiceman again!” At this he wept, flashes of Barsette’s oily grin coming to mind. Kinsey seemed to realize he was traumatized, and took his in his arms again. He pulled Thomas to his chest and Thomas went willingly, hiding against the man’s neck as blood began to pool in his mouth again. 

“No… no.” Kinsey assured him gently, “I won’t call anyone- it’s just us here. No one else is in this house. You’re safe.” 

Thomas’ exhaustion only grew. 

“What do you need me to do?” Kinsey asked, “Tell me what I can do to help you?” 

But Thomas didn’t have the words for it anymore. 

Dr. Kinsey lead him up the stairs, which landed in the foyer and took them to a private level that seemed more like a house than a working clinic. They entered a bedroom, which seemed to be more for a guest than a full time resident. There were no personal effects upon the beside table or atop the bureau. Dr. Kinsey had him sit upon a bed, much larger than any bed Thomas had ever slept in before- it was about the same size as Tom’s if not a little bit smaller. 

Dr. Kinsey wanted to look at his mouth in the light, and turned on the bedroom lamp to pat Thomas’ bloodied lips with a cold wet cloth. It felt incredibly soothing; Thomas almost wanted to bite on the rag and suck against it. 

Thomas told him everything, how could he not? From the family trials, to the arrest, to the attack and his release… Thomas talked with numb lips, occasionally stopped as Kinsey dabbed at his lips with the cloth. Dr. Kinsey listened patiently, his lips pursing at certain details such as Thomas’ initial arrest and his attack. He seemed deeply disturbed but determined to keep it in. Perhaps he sensed that Thomas’ mental upset took the primary focus in that moment, and was keeping his own shock down so that Thomas wouldn’t grow even more distressed. 

Outside, the final reaches of dusk were turning into solid black night. 

“I have no’fing.” Thomas mumbled into Kinsey’s cloth. “I can’t go back… not till I’m ready. How am I gonna be a servant now? How is Tom gonna love me- I have no’fing.” 

“That’s not true.” Kinsey reminded him, “You have something, and it was enough to bring you here. Thomas, you must see a doctor-“ He urged, “Your mouth is in bad shape. You have a fever. You need to be tended to. I don’t intend to call the police, I won’t have you frightened or harassed after all you’ve endured… but I draw my line at the doctor. And for gods sake, you have to call Tom. To call the abbey- they’ll be wondering where on earth you are. They’re probably terrified out of their minds.” 

“I dink dey’re gwad to be shot of me at dis point.” Thomas mumbled, closing his eyes as Kinsey stroked his lips with the cold clothe. 

How very wrong he was. 

~*~

Earlier that day, Thomas was completely unaware that the family had gone looking for him. 

The entire two hour drive to Wakefield, Tom could not help but think of every horrific situation that could befall Thomas in his frightened state. His fingers were sweaty upon the steering wheel, his heart beat erratic beneath his ribcage. He’d never been to Wakefield before and therefor did not realize how dominant the prison was on the skyline. The fact of the matter was, it horrified him, and Tom felt ready to vomit as they finally pulled into the city of Wakefield proper around noon. The city of Wakefield was situated around a rather expansive park that had churches dominating its four points. People were going about their busy day, completely unaware that a person was missing from amongst their throng. Tom parked out front of the park, hopping out to fetch the door for Mary who was helped to her feet by her husband as well. The three of them gaped about, each a stranger to Wakefield and unsure where to start looking. 

“We each take a direction.” Tom finally decided, for that seemed the only sensible thing to do at this point, “I’ll look around the train station where he was last seen.” 

“I’ll take the park.” Mary declared; hell they were already parked beside it. 

“I’ll talk to the churches.” Henry said, for they certainly were dominant in the area, “He might have sought sanctuary inside one of them.” 

“I doubt it,” Tom said, for Thomas had never been a church going man, “But there’s no harm in trying. We’ll meet back up here in two hours and see if we’ve found anything” 

So the three of them split off each to their own directions. Henry moved to the first church that caught his eye, a catholic beast with multiple spires and chiming bells for the noon day hour. He knocked on the door with a hard hand, and when it opened he took off his hat to address the father before him. 

“Good day, I hate to bother you before noon day mass but I was wondering if a man named Thomas Barrow sought sanctuary here earlier this morning?” 

 

 

In the park, Mary followed the well worn stone path, looking left and right every few feet as she followed mother’s walking prams and children chasing squirrels. 

“Thomas!” She called out, hoping her voice would carry. She peeked into bushes and behind massive trees, wondering if he might have hid away in some deeper part of the forest. “Thomas Barrow? Are you there?” 

He didn’t answer her if he was. Mary looked out across the lake, wondering where on earth he could have gotten off to. England suddenly felt incredibly large to her; and every town had a maze inside it. 

“Oh-“ She muttered to herself as she walked around the lake, “Where could he have gotten off to?” 

 

 

Tom was less willing to give up the fight, storming to the station and searching every nook and cranny for Thomas. He checked lavatories, closets, sitting rooms, and conductor’s offices. He walked the tracks, he checked the parking lots- he all but scoured the area shouting Thomas’ name. 

“Thomas!” Tom shouted his name as loudly as he could, startling several women that were waiting on their train, “THOMAS!!” 

But no one answered him. 

“Jesus Christ.” Tom was starting to grow frantic, terrified that Thomas had in fact gotten on the train and was gone to some random place, “Oh god. Okay… Okay. I can fix this. I can fix this.” 

He was on the verge of a panic attack at this point. He forced himself to take massive breaths, the oxygen rush making him slightly dizzy. 

“God…” His whispered, closing his eyes. He stumbled to a halt alongside the tracks, dried grass beneath his feet and expansive countryside stretching out before him. “Oh God, no.” 

Thomas had taken the money Tom had given him and had gotten on the train.   
There could be no denying it. The horror of it swelled up Tom’s heart. 

~*~

Dr. Kinsey had made good on his promise, calling on a night doctor named Dr. Theiss from a nearby home clinic that kept relatively late hours. Kinsey had called upon them before, for patients in abusive situations and for when his day maid had once cut her hand rather badly upon a kitchen knife. They came promptly, a clinic on wheels boasting of a doctor, his two nurses, and a whole array of equipment that lay waiting in the motorcar outside should they need it. 

And as it so turned out, they needed it. 

Thomas’ fever had only worsened as night had fallen, and Dr. Kinsey had bade him to lay back on the guest bed so that his outer livery had been shed and his shirt had been unbuttoned. Thomas was so exhausted he all but went to sleep when his head touched the pillow. He whimpered, fretting softly as Dr. Kinsey sat at his bedside and watched Dr. Theiss make an initial assessment of the stitches. He was a patient man, with long slender fingers like a pianist that probed at every solution. Dr. Kinsey found himself rather fond of the man and his practice. 

“It’s alright now…” Dr. Kinsey murmured, squeezing Thomas’ shoulder endearingly. He doubted Thomas could hear him at this point; Thomas seemed half-asleep, mumbling and moaning as Dr. Theiss opened his mouth with firm fingers. “It’s alright” 

“He’s ingested blood.” Dr. Theiss muttered, feeling at Thomas’ tender stomach. Buttons were turned open, shirts rolled up, and Kinsey watched as the doctor cupped Thomas’ stomach as if to feel for lumps. “We’ll have to restitch these wounds properly and keep the cuts clean. This is the problem with wounds in the mouth- we have so many germ amid our teeth and tongue.” 

“Can you care for him?” Kinsey asked, slightly worried that this was above the night nurses’ talent level. 

“Oh yes.” Dr. Theiss didn’t seem troubled, turning about face to catch the attention of one of his nurses. “Get the Ethylene?” 

The nurse did as she was bade, stepping out of the room at once to head back down the hall. Kinsey watched her go, his eyes flicking back and forth as the night doctor carefully began to peel off Thomas’ clothing. 

“Whoever did this was an idiot.” the doctor gestured to the nicks at the corners of Thomas’ mouth as the second nurse carefully folded each of Thomas’ clothes atop the lone guest bureau. “I’ve seen true Glasgow grins; this is more like a smirk. A real grin would go all the way up to the ear. This is about an inch out. He’ll need a month or so to heal properly though, and I’ll want to come back and keep a check on his progress. Who can I send the bill to?” Dr. Theiss asked, glancing up at Kinsey. This was often the question of the hour when the doctor visited Kinsey’s establishment, for Kinsey’s patients were each individual cases that could not be lumped under one cause. 

Thomas was different, however. 

“Send it to me.” Kinsey said, unfazed by however much this whole procedure would cost. If it would bring Thomas comfort and better health, so be it. 

The nurse was making to pull of Thomas’ trousers, when suddenly she gave out a tiny shriek of horror. Taken about, Kinsey looked around to see- of all things- a harvest mouse coming out of Thomas’ pocket like it had been there the whole time. What on earth? 

“Pwease…” Thomas was moaning as the harvest mouse crawled across the bed for cover, “Don’t… hurt… him… my… fwiend.” 

So it seemed that two souls had escaped the crushing embrace of Wakefield. Kinsey knew that a mouse could not be present around open wounds; it was much too dangerous. He scooped up the harvest mouse in his hands, rather amused on a childlike level for how the mouse’s paws felt against his naked flesh. 

“A friend of yours is a friend of mine.” Kinsey said, “But I have a cat and I’d rather these two avoid meeting one another in the hallway.” 

“Pwease…” Thomas slurred, tossing a bit as Dr. Theiss tried to hold his face still, “Don’t… take him away…” 

“He can’t sleep in your trouser pocket, Thomas.” Kinsey advised, “Let me think on it.” 

But Thomas was beginning to whimper again. His protests were cut off by the arrival of the first nurse, carrying an enormous leather satchel over her shoulder that looked like it could carry a portable sewing machine. It instead carried an anesthesia machine, something which baffled Kinsey to no end as she set it up upon the beside table (all but moving his lamp aside). It was a process of two bottles, two tubes (joining together as one), at the end of which a mask wrapped in an iron brace and cloth stood waiting to be applied to the nose and mouth. The nurse was quick with her work as her fellow stripped Thomas down to his pants and began to wash his face with a sterilizing cloth. The mask was applied to Thomas’ nose, and the whisperings slowly ceased as Thomas’ body grew limp upon the guest bed. 

His chest rose and fell slowly; he was asleep. 

“Stay still, that’s it…” Dr. Theiss murmured, washing his hands thoroughly with soapy water in the guest basin. He dried his hands, returned to the bed, and picked up his surgical scissors to begin snipping at the crude black thread holding the sides of Thomas’ mouth together. He looked over his shoulder at Kinsey holding the mouse. “Get that thing out of here. I don’t want it near his wounds.” 

The doctor returned his attentions to Thomas as Kinsey sidled to the door, careful to check on the health of his patient as he progressed. 

“Check his pulse?” the doctor ordered his second nurse, who was listening with a stethoscope upon Thomas’ breast. She paused, eyes narrowing. 

“He’s under.” She declared, letting the stethoscope hang around her neck as Dr. Theiss reached forward to pinch meatily at Thomas’ bottom lip. 

“Can you feel that?” He asked loudly.   
Thomas did not answer, and Dr. Theiss pulled away, rubbing gently at Thomas’ sore lip where he’d abused it. It was clear that Thomas was completely and utterly passed out, a more than willing subject for minor mouth surgery. 

“Good.” the doctor declared, “Let’s begin.” 

Dr. Kinsey left, not wanting to be in the way. He’d never seen surgery up close and had no desire to start doing so now. For as much as the human mind intrigued him, the sight of blood and all that jazz often made him queazy… much to the chagrin of his more stalwartly brother. 

Downstairs, Dr. Kinsey found himself wandering aimlessly about the house. His housemaid Alice had the night off; her sister had just given birth and had sent a telegram instructing Alice to come over as soon as possible. Dr. Kinsey had thought to make a sandwich, or perhaps go for a walk in the park across the street and fetch some dinner from a pub nearby. Now, his whole night had been shot to hell and he didn’t find himself very hungry. There was also the problem of what to do with Thomas’ “little friend” for Dr. Kinsey hadn’t run into his mother’s Persian cat Moonpie but it was bound to happen sooner or later. 

Dr. Kinsey’s answer came in the form of a vase on a side table in the hallway which had (up until that point) been used for an assortment of calling glass beads that often cast rainbows onto the ceiling when the sun hit them. Dr. Kinsey gently lowered the mouse inside, watching in slight interest as the mouse crawled over all the marbles clearly looking for food. 

“You have a very nice friend.” Dr. Kinsey warned, knowing full well that a mouse like this often wouldn’t last a single season outside in the elements. He picked the entire vase up, nestling it underneath his arm as he headed down the hallway past a tea room where he took patients and a sitting room where others waited and read.The end of the hallway boasted his office and a coat room; Dr. Kinsey took refuge behind his desk, sitting the vase atop it and (for the hell of it) tossing the mouse a biscuit from a tin he kept on a personal bookshelf. The mouse devoured the biscuit with such speed and dexterity that Dr. Kinsey tossed him two more, unsure of when the mouse had last eaten. 

He leaned over in his swivel chair, causing it to creak ominously as he rifled through patient files. 

He pulled out the one marked “Barrow, Thomas” and laid it with a flop atop his desk to open it to the very back where fresh pages awaited. 

_March 16th, 1926_ , Dr. Kinsey wrote, _We meet again…_

 

The surgery didn’t take very long, perhaps one or two hours at the most, and when it was over the secondary nurse came to collect Dr. Kinsey from his office. Dr. Kinsey went back upstairs sans the mouse and found the Dr. Theiss scrubbing his hands once more in the guest basin. Thomas was asleep underneath the covers of the guest bed, the first nurse carefully wiping his brow and smoothing back his black hair to keep it away from his re-stitch mouth. The thread was of a finer quality and a lighter shade, the skin had been doctored and cleaned. Thomas looked a damn sight better than he’d arrived in, though Kinsey knew come morning he would still be sore and fretful. 

“Come in but stay back.” Dr. Theiss warned Dr. Kinsey. Dr. Kinsey did as he bade, leaning against the far wall with his arms crossed over his chest. The nurse was tucking Thomas in, pushing the quilted covers underneath his body so that he was all but cocooned. 

“How is he?” Dr. Kinsey asked. 

“Ten stitches, five on each side.” Dr. Theiss boasted, “I tried to keep it as non-invasive as possible and cleared up some of the torn flesh. The good news is that it went neither to the buccinator nor the risorious-“ 

“Imagine if it had gone to Egypt.” Dr. Kinsey teased, for his was a novice to the muscles of the human body. Dr. Theiss chuckled. 

“What I mean to say is that this cut is not nearly as bad as it could have been.” Dr. Theiss explained, “And he will heal well. It was a baby cut really, and done with a sharp knife. I’ve seen Glasgow grins done with the points of forks if you’ll believe it.” 

Dr. Kinsey’s eyes raised slightly at this, trying to imagine the psychological state of someone so eager to cause pain on another that they’d willingly take up a fork for a weapon. 

“Come tomorrow, I’ll be back for a check up.” Dr. Theiss said, “But until then, no solid foods, minimal chewing and stretching of the mouth muscles. Keep talking to a minimum. Anything stressful on the face is likewise out. I want him sleeping straight on his back. Don’t let him deviate from side to side.” 

Well hell, how could he prevent Thomas from tossing all night? 

“How can I do that?” Dr. Kinsey asked. 

“Pillows.” The doctor said, “Just cushion his face on both sides so that if he were to turn he’d meet a pillow instead of falling straight onto the mattress.” 

But Dr. Kinsey had just the thing- throw pillows on his sofas that would fit nicely. He decided he’d taken them from the upstairs sofa so as not to alarm his patients come tomorrow when they’d stop in his sitting room, and left the guest bedroom at once to fetch them. Unfortunately, he found himself confronted with a rather irate lilac Persian cat when he ventured into the upstairs sitting room. 

It seemed that Moonpie had been using the pillows first, and was less than eager to give them up. 

“Off! Off!” Dr. Kinsey bade, gently moving the animal aside to pluck up both side pillows. She yowled, irritable, and hopped off the sofa to follow him out of the room when she left. “No-“ Dr. Kinsey bade her to return to the sitting room, “Stay in the-“ 

But cats and women paid no heed to the demands of men; they would do as they pleased by god. Moonpie ventured into the first room she saw open, which just so happened to be the guest bedroom, and yowled again only to hop atop the bed which was most unhelpful. 

“Hey-“ Dr. Theiss flustered, trying to shoo Moonpie away with his hands, “Get out of here- Nurse-“ He instructed, “Remove the cat.” 

But when the nurse tried to pick Moonpie up, Moonpie hissed violently and scooted even farther up the bed to where Thomas was sleeping soundly. Irritated, Dr. Kinsey shoved the two side pillows on either sides of Thomas’ face and watched with disbelief as Moonpie settled right back onto the pillow and returned to sleep. 

What a ridiculous animal. 

“Never mind her.” Dr. Kinsey groused, “She’s harmless.” 

Dr. Theiss threw his hands up in the air, giving the battle up for lost. Harvest mice and lilac Persians— his makeshift surgery room had turned into a petting zoo. 

“I’ll want him watched tonight.” Dr. Theiss said, repacking his bag. Both nurses worked together to cram the anesthesia machine back into its worn leather satchel, “Do you have a day maid that can stay over?” 

“Her sister just had a baby.” Dr. Kinsey said, “I’ll kip in here tonight… I can put a pallet on the floor.” 

“I’ll be back first thing in the morning.” Dr. Theiss said, “I’m going to want to get him started on an antibiotic right away but first we need him to recover from the gas. Ethylene is a difficult gas.” 

“As you wish.” Dr. Kinsey said, and showed the doctor out. 

 

That night, true to his word, Dr. Kinsey attempted to kip on the floor only to give it up when the wood proved too difficult against his sore back. He instead lay on the bed side by side with Thomas, drifting off into sleep somewhere near midnight when Thomas did not move nor whimper for several hours. 

Dr. Kinsey slept deep without troubling dreams, but when he awoke he found himself alone in bed and instantly panicked. 

It was still dark, so god only knows what hour it was. In the gloom, Dr. Kinsey looked left and right, noting Thomas had not fallen on the floor or hidden behind a piece of furniture. Perhaps he’d thought to go to the loo and had gotten lost? Dr. Kinsey clambered up out of bed and stuck his head out into the hallway looking left and right. 

Moonpie was down the hallway, pawing at a closet used for coats and boots. She meowed plaintively, passing left and right as she rubbed her lilac rump against the door sill. 

“… Thomas?” Dr. Kinsey called out, “Thomas where are you?” He stuck his head into the sitting room but found it empty. The washroom and his own bedroom were likewise clear. 

It seemed Moonpie was onto something. 

He ventured down the hallway, squatting beside Moonpie who was still meowing and rubbing herself against the door clearly wanting to be let in. 

“…Thomas?” Dr. Kinsey pressed his face to the wood to try and hear on the other side. He feared to open the door too fast, lest he traumatize Thomas further, “Thomas are you in there?” 

He could hear sniveling from the other side, and carefully stood back up to slowly open the closet door. 

Sure enough, Thomas was cowering in the bottom of the closet, covered in coats he’d accidentally pulled down and boots that he’d pushed aside. He was confused, his face shining in sweat. The corners of his mouth were puffy and pink, but no longer bleeding. Dr. Theiss’ stitches had held up well. 

“..S’too big.” Thomas mumbled, looking up at him miserably, “House is too big. I can’t sweep.” 

No, of course not. Thomas was having a sensory overload. 

Dr. Kinsey squatted back down, crowded as Moonpie brushed past him to climb into Thomas’ lap clearly liking the idea of laying all over Dr. Kinsey’s coats. Thomas stared at the cat bewildered. 

“My mother’s cat.” Dr. Kinsey explained; when she’d died the Persian (and this house) had been given to him in the will, “Moonpie.” 

Moonpie’s jaw structure had always been a peculiar thing, with her bottom teeth sticking much farther out than her upper jaw so that she was constantly showing her bottom fangs. An undershot bite, it was called… Most people were put off by her, downright terrified to see her teeth all the time. Thomas just blinked, bemused. Moonpie was purring, clearly comfortable atop Thomas’ chest. 

“I can’t sweep.” Thomas whispered, “Not in dere.” 

“No, of course not.” Dr. Kinsey nestled himself inside the closet with what space he could manage, his back pressed against folded coats and heels of boots. “We’ll sleep in here.” 

Thomas nodded, somehow content to know he’d found a good bed for the night. 

Dr. Kinsey watched as Thomas slowly went back to sleep, his soft blue eyes drooping closed until he was completely out and snoring slightly with his mouth a little ajar.

Pushed by exhaustion, Dr. Kinsey went to sleep a few hours later. He knew he would be horrible sore come morning but could not find it within him to leave a friend so clearly in need. 

The pair of them slept that way, side by side in a coat closet, till they were found by Alice the next morning. 

Dr. Kinsey was slowly roused by a timid hand touching his shoulder. He blinked, bemusedly, only to be jerked back into full consciousness when he saw Alice’s petrified face inches from his own. He started, rubbing dried drool from the side of his face as Alice looked back and forth from Thomas (who was still asleep with Moonpie atop) to Dr. Kinsey who was giving no answers. 

“Um…” Alice mumbled, looking back and forth from Dr. Kinsey to Thomas and Moonpie. “D-doctor?” 

“Good morning Alice.” Dr. Kinsey said, coughing a bit to clear his throat of phlegm. 

“Are- are you alright?” Alice asked, fretful. 

“No.” Dr. Kinsey admitted for his back felt like a nail was sticking out of it at this point, “But I will be.” 

“There’s a doctor at the door.” Alice admitted, “He says he’s here to… see a patient? I thought it was you at first-“ 

“Oh no, I’m quite well.” Dr. Kinsey assured her with a soft smile. “Send the doctor, up please and fetch me a keg of coffee-“ 

He caught the slip up at last minute, “Cup! Fetch me a cup of coffee, excuse me.” 

Alice pursed her lips, rising up and heading back downstairs. After a moment, Dr. Kinsey heard the front door open and Alice whispering to someone. 

To say Dr. Theiss was annoyed that Dr. Kinsey had allowed his patient to sleep in a coat closet was putting it mildly but Dr. Kinsey didn’t really care. He was more concerned for Thomas’ psychological recovery at this stage. If it helped him to sleep in a closet, then they would just have to sleep in a closet wouldn’t they? 

Dr. Kinsey dressed as Dr. Theiss and his nurses put Thomas back in bed properly (Moonpie did not follow, now clamoring to be fed by Alice downstairs). In his temporary privacy Dr. Kinsey bathed, dressed, and shaved for the day ahead. His morning ritual was so condensed he could do it all in half an hour, and soon found himself downstairs in his office waiting for his breakfast. 

Dr. Kinsey was a heathen. He didn’t eat at a table. 

Dr. Kinsey spread his schedule out before himself, checking to see who would be coming in today. At nine, the Barnes’ would be coming in. Mrs. Barnes had just suffered the loss of a miscarriage (the seventh in a row), and was going through severe depression. Then at eleven a wayward Mr. Elliot McCall would be stopping by to once again proclaim himself insane. 

Dr. Kinsey had yet to find anything wrong with the man but he seemed to believe that he was suffering from everything whether it be depression to fully blown schizophrenia. Patricia Lancet would also be due for another appointment at two; a diagnosed pyromaniac. 

Then there was a Ms. Victoria Livingsworth, who was a new patient coming in for marital problems at four. 

Dr. Kinsey’s hardest patient was Matthew Hill, who came on a near daily basis at five as bidden by his family due to the fact that he seemed to have no emotion, and had withdrawn himself so much socially that two people had asked his family whether he’d left the country. He also refused to bath for weeks at a time… and worst of all had a tendency to utterly ramble when he spoke. 

Dr. Kinsey knew what was wrong with Mr. Hill… but doubted his family would ever accept that their pure bred sophisticated son was psychotic. 

So Dr. Kinsey would keep a close eye on his difficult patient, until that fateful day came when Mr. Hill could no longer be reasoned with. 

Of course, Dr. Kinsey’s favorite patient (and the one who was now the study of a paper he was planning on submitting to the Society of London Psychotherapy Research) was upstairs asleep. 

Alice came in bearing a large wooden tray upon her hip. It was full to the bursting with a complete English breakfast and just as Dr. Kinsey had requested a rather large cup of coffee was the centerpiece of it all. Dr. Kinsey hastily moved aside his papers, smacking his hands together and rubbing them excitedly as Alice set down the tray so that he could immediately tuck in. Having missed dinner last night, he was utterly famished. 

Alice gaped at the corner of Dr. Kinsey’s desk, where a vase full of marbles boasted a rather fat mouse asleep in a ball. 

“Rather charming isn’t he?” Dr. Kinsey said with a mouth full of food, gobbling down his eggs before they could cool, “I mean- he’s fat- but I think Thomas has something to do with that. He’s a pet.” He slurped his coffee down, his tongue scalded by the hot liquid. God it was nectar though.” 

Alice pursed her lips, unsure. 

“The man upstairs is Thomas Barrow.” Dr. Kinsey explained to her. Alice nodded, listening intently, “He’s going to be staying with us while he recovers in the guest bedroom. He’s a patient of mine, from Yorkshire.” 

“…Only, I…” Alice mumbled, looking ashamed. 

“Yes?” 

“I… Turned him away at the door and I’m awfully sorry, sir.” She murmured reproachfully, her fair cheeps beginning to creep with a blush, “I didn’t realize he was a patient-“ 

“And a friend too.” Dr. Kinsey added, “But that’s quite alright, I understand why you might have been worried. In future, he’s far from a vagrant, and his pet- this mouse- is to stay as far away from Moonpie as possible.” 

Alice looked fretful at this, “I can hardly control the cat, sir.” 

“No, I know.” Dr. Kinsey said around a mouth of baked beans, “But we’ll both have to keep an eye out for her. How is your sister fairing?” 

“Oh she’s well sir.” Alice boasted, “The baby is healthy and normal; a fine little boy. He’s made his father very proud. They’re calling him Donald… but I’m calling him Donny for short.” 

“Donny.” Dr. Kinsey agreed. “Well god speed to them both, I’m glad to hear everything went well. Do I have anything in the mail?” He slurped down the rest of his coffee, belching a bit. 

He’d never had good table manners, but Alice didn’t mind. The mouse certainly wasn’t saying anything. Dr. Kinsey tore off a rather generous piece of buttered toast and dropped it in the vase for the mouse to eat. 

The mouse stretched languidly, awakening with a rapid twitch of the nose to quickly devour his newfound feast. 

“A few bills, sir. Nothing more.” Alice said, but there was a hesitant pause in her voice. 

“…Yes?” Dr. Kinsey asked, munching on a piece of bacon. “Is there something else?” 

Alice shook her head with a small bitter smile. Dr. Kinsey paused, licking his lips to take off any of the salty taste that still remained. 

He had a feeling he knew who had written to him, but had requested of Alice long ago that any letters go un-responded to. There was a dark ache in his heart where a beautiful woman had once been. 

He didn’t feel like re-opening that chapter in his life. 

 

Alice left him alone after that, taking the finished breakfast tray with her, and Dr. Kinsey struck up a cigarette as he rifled through his desk drawer to find the business card he sought one in particular. He’d been wrestling with himself all night about the concept of calling Downton Abbey and telling them just where Thomas had run off to. The fact of the matter was that Dr. Kinsey was bound by oath; he could no more tell the others where Thomas was than he could a stranger or a policeman. Thomas had begged to be kept in confidence. What could Kinsey do but oblige him? 

Still, Dr. Kinsey knew (even if Thomas did not want to admit it) that the others were probably worried sick, running all about York to try and find him. 

“Damnit.” Dr. Kinsey grumbled to himself, stubbing out his cigarette in an overflowing ash tray. 

~*~

Upon returning to Downton empty handed, Tom’s brain started to melt down from panic. His first thought, and the most irrational one by far, was that Thomas was dead. The others tried to assure him that this was not the case. That if anything, Thomas was hiding. But a pound could only get a man so far in life, and once the money ran out what then? What would Thomas do? Would he hide in the streets never to return home? Was he ashamed? Was he angry at Tom? Had prison broken his mind and made him delirious? There were so many unanswered questions that Tom found himself all but swimming in a pool of sweat, whimpering as he lay in his bed alone that night. He was tense and sore in the morning, frightened half to death as he skipped breakfast and continued to mull over the unknown. 

Yet Henry was a good friend, and reminded Tom that, quite simply, there was one thing they did know. 

Thomas had gone to the train station. 

Both of the motorcars were being worked on after having been driven to Wakefield, so Tom had to content himself with the telephone. He waited impatiently while the operator directed him to Wakefield, and from then another operator directed him to the train station. 

“Pretend like we know he got on the train for a fact.” Henry urged him, sitting beside Tom on the couch. Across from them, Mary read the newspaper and worked on the crossword, her eyes flicking up to Tom and Henry ever so often as she paused over a particular question. 

_“Wakefield Station.”_ A secretaries voice spoke up, jarring Tom from his reverie. 

“Yes, my name is Tom Branson, I need to know where the train that left yesterday at six in the morning was headed?” Tom fumbled over his words, feeling like his tongue was swollen. 

There was a slight shuffle and pause: _“It says here that the train to leave at six yesterday was bound for London’s Elephant and Cross station.”_

Oh christ like that wasn’t in the middle of fucking everything! Tom groaned aloud. 

“Elephant and Cross in London.” Tom told Henry and Mary. Mary’s eyebrows were in danger of going into her hairline. 

“I doubt he would have stopped to shop.” Mary muttered. 

“Do you have any records of a Thomas Barrow buying a ticket that morning?” Tom asked, fretful. There was another pause. 

_“One moment please-“_ the secretary was no doubt searching through the log book, having to painstakingly go through every name she saw. _“I can’t see any here sir, but let me direct you to the conductor. He might have a better answer.”_

“Thank you.” Tom said, chewing on his bottom lip aggressively. 

_“Master Brighton speaking.”_ A new voice came on the phone, deep and smooth like a baritone. 

“Master Brighton my name is Tom Branson, I have a very urgent question to ask of a man that would have boarded the six o’clock train yesterday to Elephant and Cross. “ Tom said in a rush. 

_“I remember it.”_ Master Brighton said. 

“His name is Thomas Barrow. He would have bought a third class ticket.” Tom said, bringing his thumb to his mouth to chew at the nail. Henry reached up and firmly tugged Tom’s hand away from his mouth, forcing him to sit like a gentleman. 

“Stop panicking.” Henry whispered beside him, “Assume nothing.” 

Oh that was easy for him to fucking say, wasn’t it. 

_“I have nothing here in my log book for a man named Thomas Barrow.”_ the conductor admitted. 

“Please sir.” Tom begged, at his wits end, “I- I don’t know where else he could have gone! I’m about to have a break down trying to figure it out-“ 

_“Well what did he look like?”_ Master Brighton coaxed, _“Maybe I saw him if nothing else.”_

“He’s uh-“ Tom racked his brain, panic suddenly making him almost forget what Thomas looked like. Those sweet blue eyes were piercing his brain, luscious red lips saying his name in the dead of night and sending him straight up to heaven. “He’s in his early thirties. He has black hair, blue eyes. He would have looked a little haggard.” 

_“Ah.”_ Master Brighton did not sound happy. 

“D’you remember him?” Tom demanded, sitting up straight on the couch. 

_“Yes, I do.”_ Master Brighton paused, _“Hard to forget a face like that.”_

Well, Tom technically agreed but he didn’t know if he’d be brave enough to declare that openly on the phone. 

“I agree.” Tom said, unsure where the station master was going at this point. 

_“I put him on the baggage cart, that’s why there’s no ticket in my log book for him. I had no more room but I knew he had to get out of Wakefield. I confess I felt sorry for him. I was worried he was being followed by the men who hacked his face.”_

Tom blanched, “What?” 

_“Well… Thomas Barrow does have a face that’s hacked up, doesn’t he? The corners of his mouth are nicked, right?”_

~*~

“I just can’t tell you what a relief it is to finally talk to a man who understand a woman’s need for sex!” Mrs. Livingsworth babbled; Dr. Kinsey was rather enraptured at this point, unable to stop her from steamrolling him through the conversation. Dear god she was repressed… 

And opinionated. 

It was around four thirty in the afternoon, and so far the day had passed much as Dr. Kinsey had supposed. This new patient, however, was a firecracker in a pale pink dress. Goodness, what a mouth she had on her- 

“I try and tell my husband and he thinks I’m turning European on him, and I tell him, Edward, we are European! American’s think we’re European- and we went to New York last summer, he knows this- but I mention sex and suddenly I’m French or Italian— well I told him I’d rather be French or Italian than English if it meant getting my leg up once and a while. Oho! Then it was all destabilization of the monarchy and I’m what’s wrong with the country-! Guess who slept on the couch that night- ?” 

Dr. Kinsey opened his mouth to attempt to guess but Mrs. Livingsworth just kept going. 

“Me!” She pointed angrily to herself at this point, “Because I’d rather sleep on the couch that sleep with that man! I swear to you, it’s hard enough having an orgasm as it is, now I have to have one with a fat, sweaty man on top of me!” 

“Good heavens,” Dr. Kinsey said, more to himself than his new patient, “That’ll frighten the horses.” 

“All I want is a man who’ll listen to me and not judge me.” Mrs. Livingsworth lamented, exhausted by her marital spats. “That’s all I’m asking for! I don’t want to be a whore I just want to be a woman! Is that such a crime?” 

“I should hope not.” Dr. Kinsey mused. 

“Why is he so ignorant to my needs?” Mrs. Livingsworth demanded emotionally, her brown hair starting to come down from her bun for how vividly she shook her head, “Why? Am I so unlovable? Am I not attractive enough to be worthy of decent sex? Would you have sex with me-“ she added, gesturing angrily at him. 

Dr. Kinsey blinked, taken aback, “Hypothetically?” 

“If you want.” She said, clearly eager to get on with the point. Dr. Kinsey made a worried noise in the back of his throat, not too sure he was enjoying where this conversation was turning. 

A sudden scratching at the door brought Dr. Kinsey to a pause. He glanced up, eager for a distraction to let Mrs. Livingsworth remember herself, and rose to answer the door. He was almost certain it was Moonpie on the other side, whining to come in. 

“I apologize-“ Dr. Kinsey said as the noise grew louder, “I have a cat, she must be wanting to come in.” 

“I like cats.” Mrs. Livingsworth assured him; Dr. Kinsey opened the door, but instead of being greeted with a grumpy lilac Persian he was greeted by a very confused homosexual recovering from mouth surgery. 

“Oh!” Dr. Kinsey was taken aback as Thomas stumbled into the tea room, looking around for something he could not find. He was in pajamas, tousle haired. his mouth puffy pink and his blue eyes bleary as he looked around the sitting couch. “Thomas, come back here-“ Dr. Kinsey caught him by the arms, attempting to steer him away from Mrs. Livingsworth who was gaping at him amazed. 

“Oh my god…” She murmured, green eyes bright and keen. 

“I’m terribly terribly sorry-“ Dr. Kinsey apologized, “My poor friend seems to have lost his way in my house. He’s not feeling very well, he’s just had surgery, he’s recovering with me until he gets back on his feet-“ 

“He’s so handsome.” Mrs. Livingsworth murmured, hardly flustered to be approached by a man in his underclothes. 

“Eh- yes-“ Dr. Kinsey chortled nervously, trying to steer Thomas towards the door. “He’s rather good looking isn’t he.” 

Dr. Kinsey rang for Alice, pulling on the tapestry bell and holding Thomas tight to his chest to make sure he didn’t go wandering off again. 

“Where’s buddabean?” Thomas mumbled sleepily. 

“What?” Dr. Kinsey wasn’t too sure he’d heard right. 

“Buddabean.” Thomas repeated, leaning haggardly against him, “De mouse-“ 

“Oh!” Dr. Kinsey realized Thomas was no doubt fretting over his errant companion, “He’s in a vase in my office-“ 

“I have to feed him.” Thomas said, fishing around in his pajama pocket to pull out, of all things, a shoe lace string. Dr. Kinsey stared at it bemusedly, “He gonna be hungwy.” 

“I fed him off of my breakfast tray this morning.” Dr. Kinsey assured him but took the shoelace all the same, “but I’ll be sure to give him this.” 

He pocketed the lace, unsure of what else to do. He turned to Mrs. Livingsworth who was still staring at Thomas hungrily as if he were a rather succulent piece of meat. “He has a pet mouse, it’s rather sweet if not a little obese.” 

“You’re so in tune with the needs of others.” Mrs. Livingsworth praised Thomas, who was too drugged to thank her. 

“Yes, he’s very kind-“ Dr. Kinsey said, wishing he could add ‘And very gay’ just for the hell of it. 

Alice showed up, shocked to find Thomas downstairs in the tea room. She took him by the arm at once, making to pull him away. 

“Here we are, Mr. Barrow-“ She said hastily, “right this way.” 

“Oh well he be alright?” Mrs. Livingsworth fretted, “He’s so very handsome-“ 

“Yes, yes.” Dr. Kinsey said, carefully shutting the door to the hallway as Alice lead a teetering Thomas back up the stretch to where the base of the stairs lay waiting, “Alice will put him back to bed and make sure he stays there.” 

“He’s rather dreamy isn’t he.” Mrs. Livingsworth murmured, fanning herself a bit as she sat back down on the couch. 

“I suppose-“ Dr. Kinsey was determined to steer this conversation back into the land of sanity if he could, “But let’s get back to your initial questions Mrs. Livingsworth. I’m eager to sate your curiosity on the subject of your needs and their validity in the eyes of your husband.” 

~*~

Tom was surrounded by the family, sitting silently on the couch with Carson bitterly before him. 

“…. Why didn’t you tell me?” He whispered, looking up to Carson. 

“…I was in shock.” Carson admitted, “I didn’t know how to tell you, sir.” 

Tom couldn’t seem to follow the train of logic that had brought him to this sorry conclusion. Someone in prison had… had… done what to Thomas’ face? Had… knifed him? Slit the corners of his mouth? Tom’s brain refused to work after that point, shutting down to gray fuzz as Mary shifted beside him on the couch and Henry tried to pour him a whiskey 

“Is it really all that bad?” Mary asked, “How bad are the scars?” 

“It’s difficult to say, M’lady.” Carson admitted, “His face was very dirty and unkempt. I couldn’t tell if the scars were bad, or it just the dirt.” 

“He must have run to avoid facing us.” Robert mused from the opposite couch. He could no longer drink stiff alcohol without upsetting his stomach and so instead took tea. Robert rose from the couch, taking his tea with him to drink while pacing, “So we know he got off at Elephant and Cross, but where would he go? Has he ever spoken to you about friends he has in London?” He turned to Tom. 

“He doesn’t have friends outside the abby.” Tom said bitterly. His hands were beginning to clench into fists upon his knee. 

All he could see in his mind was Thomas’ tear stained face as he was pulled away by the police. Thomas- so far gone beyond his protection that he couldn’t save him from the sharp point of a knife. 

“Then where would he go?” Robert mused, “It doesn’t make any sense. Barrow isn’t the type to act without thinking.” 

Henry caught Mary’s eyes, the pair of them boring holes into one another’s faces for how wrong Robert was. 

Tom rose up, refusing the whiskey that Henry offered him. 

Someone had taken a knife to Thomas’ face. And that was unforgivable. 

“Tom?” Robert asked, noting the peculiar expression on his face.   
Was it peculiar? Tom couldn’t say. He didn’t feel peculiar. 

He was just going to kill a man. Nothing more. 

“I’m going to take a walk.” Tom said; technically this was true. He was going to take a walk.   
To HMP Wakefield. 

“Tom, don’t do anything rash.” Robert advised sternly. Tom passed right by him, heading for the library door at a calm pace. Part of him wanted to run, part of him wanted to take his time. When he got to Wakefield, he knew what would happen. 

But for now… he wanted justice and he wanted it swiftly. 

“Don’t wait up for me.” Tom said, his tone unbelievably calm for how furious he felt.  
Henry watched him go, eyes narrowed.

~*~

As soon as Dr. Kinsey had finished with his patients for the day, he’d bidden Alice to fetch Dr. Theiss again and lock the front door behind her. 

Something was wrong with Thomas. 

His breathing was labored, his cheeks hot with fever again, and he didn’t seem to know where he was. At times he would be lucid, moaning for Tom and reaching out with itching fingers. At other times, he was unreachable, eyes glazed over with heat as he slurred about tasks he needed to complete for Mr. Carson or Lord Grantham. Dr. Kinsey sat beside him on the bed, Moonpie mewling at his pillows, and held Thomas’ hand as he sweated and cursed the world. 

Dr. Theiss, of course, was unflustered and attributed it to having a mouse loose in the house. 

“It’s an infection, which I knew would happen.” Dr. Theiss said, preparing a syringe full of antibiotic. “I’m going to have a day nurse come attend to him in my absence. She’ll administer his drugs and make sure he doesn’t do anything foolish.” 

“Whatever is best, please do.” Dr. Kinsey urged; Alice watched from the doorway, captivated by the sight of Dr. Theiss healing Thomas. 

“Honestly, the answers are far less complicated than you might think.” Dr. Theiss said, setting his drained syringe aside to open a tin can of white paste which he began to smear at the corners of Thomas’ mouth atop his puffy stitches. “A healthy diet, plenty of rest and fluids, and an antibiotic for the infection? He’ll be right as rain in a few weeks. He’s just confused…” Dr. Theiss smiled wearily at Dr. Kinsey. “Ethylene is a dangerous gas. It’s normal for there to be a term of coming to afterwards.” 

“But it’s better than being awake when someone does surgery on your mouth.” Dr. Kinsey mused. Dr. Theiss nodded silently, re-canning the paste and setting it on Thomas’ bedside table. 

“Expect my nurse tonight.” Dr. Theiss said. “She’ll arrive with the evening mail.” 

“Ah but how many stamps will she take?” Dr. Kinsey joked as Dr. Theiss rose and washed his hands again. Dr. Theiss snorted, drying his hands off to cast a dark look over his shoulder. 

“Far too many. She’s twenty stone.”   
~*~

The motorcars were acting up, and Tom realized that they wouldn’t last the drive to Wakefield. A drive to Downton station, however, was perfectly within rights. In an act of fury, Tom raided the gardener’s stations and found a rather menacing fishing knife that was sharpened to an incredibly fine point. He took it, stowing it in his coat pocket. He couldn’t say what he’d do with that knife but… he had a feeling he’d need it.

He drove to Downton station, forming a plan in his mind.   
He was going to go to HMP Wakefield, and ask to speak with whoever was in charge. Then he’d find out about the disturbance with Thomas, and see if perhaps he couldn’t garner a moment of time alone with the prisoner who’d knifed him. If it turned out it was a guard, then Tom would just wait outside the prison until the guard left for home that night… and he’d kill him. 

Simple as that. 

At Downton station, Tom thumbed through his billfold while waiting in line to get a third class ticket, noting the train before him would take him merely to York. He could easily swap a train from there and get to Wakefield; it was hardly a bother. One thing was for certain, he had to get out of Downton and fast before a member of the family caught onto what he was doing. 

Tom reached the conductor’s booth and pulled out a tenner. 

“Tom!”   
Tom looked up, and grimaced as he saw Henry coming into the station. Where the hell had he come from? He’d certainly walked fast- or maybe he’d just taken the other car.   
And god damnit if he wasn’t with company—! Mr. Bates was behind Henry, looking quite disturbed to find Tom in line. 

“Third class ticket to York.” Tom snapped at the conductor, handing over his money. The conductor wrote his name down and tore him off a ticket, handing it over as he filed away his change. “I told you not to wait up for me.” 

“Any reason you’re going to York?” Henry asked, a nervous edge to his voice. 

“Go home.” Tom snapped, taking the ticket from the conductor to step out of line. 

“Not unless you go with me!” Henry snapped, following Tom into the train station. The fishing knife was heavy in Tom’s pocket; he kept his coat close to make sure no one would see it. 

“And why should I listen to you?” Tom demanded, “When have you ever been in a situation like this? What good is your advice, damnit?” 

“Listen to me, Mr. Branson!” Mr. Bates was a step or two behind Henry, unable to walk as fast as the other men. But he seemed more frantic than Henry, more determined to get his point across. “I’ve been in your shoes, and it nearly cost me the freedom of the woman I love.” 

Tom paused, ticket in hand. The crowd milled around them, parting and reforming as Tom blocked the way onto the waiting platform. 

“Don’t give into your rage, Mr. Branson.” Mr. Bates spoke with unnerving authority, a man not only jailed but witness to his lover being jailed as well. Perhaps he, of all men, could understand Tom’s anger, “Don’t let it ruin your life.” 

The ticket attendant was waiting at the gate to tear Tom’s ticket. Tom looked down at the red piece of paper in his hands, then back up at Bates and Henry who were each waiting for his answer. 

“Sir?” The attendant called out. 

“He’s not going.” Henry spoke out. 

“Yes I am.” Tom spat, turning to thrust his third class ticket at the attendant. She tore it, meekly. 

“No-!” Henry rounded on Tom, irate at being ignored so rudely by a friend, “He’s not!” He grabbed Tom by the arm and jerked him out of line forcibly, nearly knocking an older woman aside. 

“Yes!” Tom snarled, struggling against Henry lest Henry feel the knife in his pocket, “I am!” He tried to jerk away, and the fluid motion was so severe that the handle of the knife suddenly poked out of his pocket. 

Henry stared at it, gaping like a fish. 

“Oh my god.” Henry muttered, suddenly realizing what was in Tom’s pocket. 

Tom tried to pull away, but Henry latched on with such an iron grip that it was sure to bruise. He didn’t want to wrestle with Tom, not now that he knew what was in his pocket, but, pulled him violently from the station so that several people ran out of the line to avoid being trampled by the thrashing pair. 

“Let go of me!” Tom shouted, furious. “Let go or I’ll take you down with me!” 

“Oh shove it up your Irish arse!” Henry said; several older women on the station squawked at such horrific language. 

Mr. Bates got the motorcar, abandoning the one Tom had brought to the station in order to get their party moving back to safer ground. Henry and Tom thrashed, the knife between them a clear and present danger should either of them get stabbed. Henry accidentally tore the shoulder of Tom’s coat from his arm as he all but threw him into the car on his opposite side, determined that the knife should do no one harm. Tom fell backwards into the car, legs sticking out to kick and thrash at the air as Henry hopped into the front seat next to Bates. 

“You bastards!” Tom shouted, trying to get back up; Henry reached over from the front to hold him down, arse nearly sticking the the air as he pushed Tom down by the shoulder and chest. 

“Drive!” Henry shouted at Bates who promptly floored the gas. Their little car puttered off, zipping out of Downton station before the conductor could throw them out for indecency. They left behind them a very confused attendant and several irate older women. 

~*~

Sure enough, just as the evening post came around bearing a letter from a patient in Whales and a dinner invitation he planned to decline, so too did an enormous woman arrive wrapped in a plaid traveling cloak and carrying an umbrella that double as a cane. Drugged and doped as Thomas was, the woman positively frightened him and he curled up tight in bed as she appeared in the doorway, swinging her umbrella and overnight bag like an elephant might its trunk. 

Gretchen Foister was far from a timid soul, reminding Thomas distinctly of Mrs. Patmore as she made herself a camp roll at the base of Thomas’ bed and started hammering him with food. Thomas was so confused, so tired and exhausted, that he didn’t get much chance to defend himself as she’d sat herself on the side of his bed with a wooden tray and spooned half a bowl of oatmeal into his mouth. 

To be fair he’d slept like a baby afterward, but he didn’t know if she could be thanked for that.   
The night was spent with Thomas drifting in and out of sleep while Gretchen read a book of old english poetry and knitted an entire scarf. Twice Thomas had woken up to vomit, the antibiotic sitting poorly on his stomach. Gretchen had been a prompt nurse, helping him to swallow some water before soothing Thomas back to sleep. 

He’d thought in the morning she would leave, but oh no…   
No, no, Gretchen wasn’t leaving until she was good and ready thank you very much. 

She forced Thomas to eat another massive breakfast, to the point where he almost felt nauseas, and then proceeded to force him sound out several sentences such as “The thistle thickened though I thought it thin” and “The lazy lady left a loaf and lemons at Lake Lagoon.” 

Which Thomas hated her for. 

A week after her arrival, Thomas sat by the window in the guest bedroom looking out over the small parks of London while Gretchen continued to force him to exercise his mouth and speak properly. The more he did it, the easier it became, which made sense when he thought about it. 

“Wider… wider…” Gretchen commanded, forcing Thomas to stretch his mouth until it was slightly painful. “That’s the ticket.” She popped him lightly in the jaw and Thomas snapped his mouth closed at once. She sat back, pleased with his progress, “The insides of your mouth are healing well. The outsides need a bit more care. I’m going to get the doctor to prescribe you some more ointment.” 

Thomas grimaced, for the ointment smelt strongly of peppermint but tasted rather similarly to arse. 

And Thomas would know. 

“Sit here.” Gretchen sat, patting his leg rather forcefully, “And I’ll go fetch you some tea.” She rose up, and left him in the bedroom by the sill. For a moment Thomas was content to be still, but found himself growing bored without anything to do. What was more, he could hear the very faint vestiges below of voices. He wondered who they belonged to; perhaps Dr. Kinsey or one of the maids? 

Restless, Thomas rose and left the guest bedroom clad in trousers and shirtsleeves. He couldn’t even be bothered to put on shoes, but what was the point when he wouldn’t be going outside of the house? Thomas’ strength went in and out, sometimes with him and sometimes completely abandoning him so that he felt it best to nap despite it being the middle of the day. His greatest concern, the one that stayed with him constantly, was the state of affairs at the abbey… and Tom. 

As each day passed and Tom did not appear, Thomas began to wonder if they’d been divided forever. If Tom felt now that he was beyond hope after being imprisoned… if the family even trusted him anymore. He struggled with it constantly, for half of him firmly believed the family was looking for him. That Tom was surely going out of his mind. The other half, however, was doubtful and it bore a terrible hole into Thomas’ heart to think that he was alone in the world again. What would become of him now, he wondered? But such was his mental state that he knew he could not leave Dr. Kinsey’s. When he began to plummet emotionally, he was safest close to the doctor who could keep him from suicide. It terrified him to think he might spiral like that again, might be caught out by the police and re-imprisoned. 

So he stayed, caught between the tug and pull. 

Dr. Kinsey’s house wasn’t very lavish. It was nothing like the opulence of Downton Abbey. It was full of warm wood and soft carpets- he seemed to be fond of the colors maroon and burnt orange. Cranberry glass littered the house in lamps, vases, or figurines. Pictures on the walls caught Thomas’ eye- black and white photographs of beautiful women or families pulled tight around newly born infants. Thomas found it easy to pick out Dr. Kinsey in the crowd, young and handsome as he clapped the shoulder of a beaming man (surely the father) while a woman (perhaps the mother) held an infant in its lace bassinet. Part of Thomas was still a butler, fixing crooked furniture and wiping dust off of counters as he passed. He descended the stairs, finding himself back in the foyer and wondering at the house around him. 

To the left was a dining room with a massive oak table and a few matching chairs backed in red velvet. Funnily enough, it seemed that the table was never laid for supper for the buffet table and the china drawers were instead hosting a full display of trophies and medals. The dining room table was likewise covered in books, and Thomas approached them cautiously to see that they were all newly printed medical journals perhaps for patients to read while they waited. 

But Thomas didn’t want to read, so he passed them on, instead venturing to the right of the foyer where a large sitting room was laid out around a marble hearth. Here, a maid was busy wiping dust off of counters and fixing vases full of white flowers. Thomas watched her for a moment; he’d never seen this maid before. Perhaps she only came once or twice a week. 

When she caught him staring she gave him a small smile and tipped her head. So it seemed she knew who he was. She went back to cleaning, rubbing a thick pad over wooden furniture to collect dust hiding in grooves. Thomas saw a man sitting upon a maroon couch, with a thick blonde mustache and immaculately parted hair. He was reading one of Dr. Kinsey’s many magazines and did not glance up at him. He seemed to be well to do- perhaps a banker or a lawyer. Maybe he had the day off? Thomas wondered why he was here, and desperately longed to ask though he knew it would be incredibly rude. The soft tick of a mantel clock kept the silence. Outside Thomas could hear the chittering of birds and the occasionally passing motorcar. 

He left the sitting room, feeling that he was intruding somehow. It was true that he was a patient of Dr. Kinsey’s just like the man on the couch, but he’d not had the decency to make an appointment. Down the hallway that ran underside the stairs, Thomas passed by a broom closet, a green baize door which no doubt lead into the cellar and kitchen, and a door inlaid with tea pleasantries. At first Thomas thought it would be a library and made to open the door… but paused when he heard voices on the other side. 

He slowly pressed his head to the wood, listening intently. 

_“Naturally you’re fearful for your daughter’s future, what parent wouldn’t be, but isn’t this a conversation you ought to be having with your daughter yourself? Your anxieties will only continue to increase until you address the problem of your-“_

Thomas jumped when he felt a hand on his shoulder, and looked around startled to see the maid Alice who had first shut the door on him thinking him a vagrant. She looked slightly stern. 

“You can’t do that.” She whispered softly so as not to be overhead through the door. “Dr. Kinsey’s seeing a patient.” 

Thomas suddenly felt incredibly stupid and brushed Alice’s well-meant hand away, stumbling down the hallway towards Dr. Kinsey’s office where he’d been told Butterbean would be hiding in a vase. Alice watched him go disapprovingly, only to follow after him when he opened the door to Dr. Kinsey’s study. 

It was a circular room situated around a polished oak desk and a fine stained glass window that cast rainbows over everything the light touched. There were no free places to hang pictures in this room; every inch of the wall had been converted into an impromptu library with finely carved shelves boasting massive stacks of medical texts, theory and rhetoric, and antiques. 

Shockingly enough, there was even a skull in one of the cubby holes. Amazed, Thomas reached out at once to pick it up, occasionally casting an eye over his shoulder to the desk where sure enough Butterbean was asleep in a vase full of marbles. Crumbs around him clearly dictated that he’d been recently fed. 

Thomas wondered who the skull had belonged to. How it had fallen into Dr. Kinsey’s hands, and why he’d wanted to keep it. He stared at the empty eye sockets, fingering them carefully-

“He lost touch with reality.” 

Thomas jumped, nearly dropping the skull which he clutched tightly to his chest in terror as he whipped around. There in the doorway was Dr. Kinsey in a tan day suit, smiling calmly as he leaned against the sill. 

Thomas suddenly felt incredibly guilty for having listened at the door and carefully put the skull back down so as not to damage it. He turned away, pulling Butterbean out of the vase so that the mouse started, twitched, and yawned to roll onto his stomach in Thomas’ palm. 

Dr. Kinsey shut the door to his office, effectively sealing them in. 

“…Don’t you have a patient?” Thomas fumbled with Butterbean, keeping his back to the doctor. 

“I just finished, actually.” Dr. Kinsey said.   
The silence persisted between them. 

“Thomas.” Dr. Kinsey said after a moment, walking further into his office till they were standing side by side, “It’s alright. I’m not angry at you.” 

“I shouldn’t have done it.” Thomas stated the obvious dumbly. “I don’t know what I was thinking.” 

“You were thinking the same thing Alice was thinking when I caught her doing it; the same thing my mother was thinking when she continued to do it even after I caught her the sixth and seventh time.” Dr. Kinsey sneered at this, clearly amazed his mother had had the nerve. “…You wanted to know the deepest darkest secrets of whoever was on the other side of that door. It’s curiosity.” 

Dr. Kinsey came around the side of his desk, falling into his swivel chair and running a hand through his oiled hair so that several dark brown curls sprung out of place. He gave Thomas a small smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. 

“What did you hear?” Dr. Kinsey asked. 

“… Just you.” Thomas admitted, “Talking about how the woman ought to be speaking with her daughter instead of you.” 

Dr. Kinsey nodded absently at this, “But you didn’t hear why the she was worried?” 

“No.” Thomas shook his head. 

“Mm.” Dr. Kinsey nodded again, “I bet you’re wondering though.” 

“I am.” Thomas wouldn’t lie to the man. 

“Well, my friend.” Dr. Kinsey gave him an amused smile at this, “Wonder away.” 

Thomas could not help but smile in return. 

“It’s hard, I know.” Dr. Kinsey admitted, relaxing a little more in his chair so that it was almost as if he was in a recliner. “But you have to remember that I am a doctor, and what goes on behind that tea door is confidential. I know servants listen in on the upper class; I’m not a fool. But this is slightly different than gossip. These are very sick people coming to a doctor for help.” 

“I’m not a snitch.” Thomas said defensively. Dr. Kinsey shook his head. 

“No but you are very curious, and perhaps consider me a close friend. You want to know what I know. But sometimes the things I hear are very scary, and I’d rather you not hear them.” 

“I’m not afraid.” Thomas said, for how could he be afraid of anything after Wakefield? Dr. Kinsey gave him a sad little smile. 

“You would be.” Dr. Kinsey said softly, “If you heard some of the things I heard, you would be very afraid. But that’s neither here nor there because I trust you not to listen at my door anymore.” 

“What’s the most frightening thing you’ve ever heard?” Thomas asked.   
Dr. Kinsey stared at him unabashed. He seemed to be thinking the question over with great care. 

“After turning in a father for physically abusing his son… the father coldly said to me ‘I’ll find you’.” Dr. Kinsey said, “Nothing more, just that. Of all the times I’ve been threatened… that man was the most frightening.” 

“Did he find you?” Thomas asked, slightly nervous. 

“Difficult to do so, seeing as he was imprisoned.” Dr. Kinsey said with a tight smile, “But eventually he will get out and I do expect him to try and find me. Yes.” 

“Are you scared of him?” Thomas asked. 

Dr. Kinsey shook his head, “Not much honestly scares me. I hardly have a family to worry about, do I?” 

Thomas knew how he felt and pursed his lips deep in thought. 

“…Thomas,” Dr. Kinsey spoke up, twirling his pen in his hand (a familiar habit) “We have to do something about Butterbean. I don’t think he likes living in a vase. It’s much too contained. It’s a bit like jail-“ 

An ugly stab of pain hit Thomas in the gut. A physical reaction to a mental fear. 

Dr. Kinsey stopped shut, pursing his lips tight and closing his eyes. He seemed to be damning himself silently, and rubbed a hand over his mouth before speaking again. 

“…I’m sorry.” Dr. Kinsey said softly, “I apologize. That was uncouth of me.” 

“…It’s fine.” Thomas whispered. In the palm of his hand, Butterbean was beginning to nap again, clearly too lazy for his own good. “But where could he go?” 

“A garden?” Dr. Kinsey offered. 

“What about rats or hawks?” Butterbean was much too fat for such things. He’d be dead within the day. 

“Well, he is a harvest mouse.” Dr. Kinsey reasoned, gesturing at the sleeping mouse, “I should think he’s used to running for his life.” 

“…He’s gotten fat.” Thomas admitted, “He won’t be able to run fast anymore.” 

Dr. Kinsey chuckled at this, clearly amused. “Don’t worry.” He said calmly, “We’ll think of something.” 

And Thomas trusted that they would.

~*~  
Trust, back in Downton, however, was a foreign concept. On the same day that Tom had attempted to take a knife to Wakefield, he’d successfully been caught, captured, and drug right back to the house to be reprimanded by every man he knew. 

The knife sat before Tom on the library coffee table, clear and obvious guilt. 

“I suppose you thought yourself very clever!” Mr. Carson barked, purple in the face. Bates stood at Carson’s side unimpressed, with Henry on the couch next to Tom and Robert on Carson’s other side scowling. 

“Maybe I did!” Tom shouted, uncaring for who would hear, “The love of my life has been attacked, and I want justice!” 

“And how did you intend to get it?!” Henry demanded, “By storing the gates of a maximum security prison in a single man battalion!?” 

“Maybe-“ Tom flustered, realizing how foolish his plan sounded now, “I hadn’t gotten there yet!” 

“No you bloody well hadn’t!” Robert cursed, shaking his head at Tom. Tom felt just like he had when he’d run from Ireland with his tail between his legs. He doubted the others would let this go for years. “Barrow has only just been freed from his shackles and here you are eager to take them on yourself. Did you even think for one minute how we would have felt- how Barrow would have felt had you been imprisoned for attempted murder?” 

“Who said anything about attempted?” Tom sneered, for he had a feeling if he’d been successful he would have utterly destroyed the man who’d dared to take a knife to Thomas’ lovely face. 

“Do you find yourself amusing?! Honorable?!” Carson thundered, the most furious of the lot, “Because a murderer is neither!” 

His voice caused an echo reaction the library, so massive that Tom’s earbuds pounded and caused him to wince. He kept his eyes low, locked on the knife which gleamed in the soft licking flames of the library hearth. He imagined how easy it would have been to carve through a man’s flesh with that knife. How easy it would have been to rip the very heart out of someone. 

He’d never had such violent thoughts before. He’d always been an idealist, and this type of savagery didn’t suit him. It made his stomach turn. 

“Mr. Branson.” Mr. Bates spoke up for the first time so that the others were now silent to listen; the man looked weary, leaning haggardly upon his cane, “I nearly made the same mistake you did, but I realized when I stood on that platform that I couldn’t do it. That if I went through with my plan, I would kill a man, and be hung… and never see Anna again. Is that what you want for Thomas?” 

Tom suddenly imagined the pain, the horror on Thomas’ beautiful face if he’d be forced to watch Tom hang from a prison scaffold. He imagined Thomas wailing, screaming out for Tom, arms outstretched to try and stop that events unfolding before him. 

That would be the last image Tom would see before a bag was put over his head. Thomas wailing in misery. 

It made his stomach clench. 

“…I want justice.” Tom looked away, hands bitterly clenched upon his lap. 

“Then get it through the law, sir!” Bates urged for reason, “Find out who his attacker was, and have him jailed!” 

“Unless he’s already in the prison, and then just tack another sentence on!” Robert added. 

“I doubt it was another prisoner, M’lord.” Bates said, which didn’t make much sense until he added, “I think I know exactly who it was… and if I’m correct then it was a guard.” 

Robert looked taken aback, “My god.” He muttered at the ugly idea, “You astound me.” 

But it didn’t astound Tom now that he thought about it. The world was just one great big ball of shite as far as he was concerned. He could remember being optimistic and hopeful, thinking each day a new start to a better life. But where had that gotten him in the end? Fighting at a train station with a fishing knife in his pocket- that’s where! He suddenly realized where Thomas’ pessimistic attitude had come from, and resented not understanding in the first place so many years ago. 

Tom looked away out the window where the sun was ever so slowly starting to set. The pull of early spring brought dusk early, and Tom wondered where Thomas was. 

If he was fed.   
If he was clothed.   
If he was safe. 

“… I have to go to London. To Elephant and Cross.” Tom said, breaking the tense silence that had formed. “I have to find him. Before someone else does.” He added. 

Robert would hear none of it.   
“Tom, we just caught you sneaking off to Wakefield with a knife in your pocket! And now you think we’re going to let you mosey off to London to stab someone else?” 

Tom fumbled for words, unsure of what to say. 

“Well-I-“ Tom stuttered, unable to meet Robert’s eye for a moment till he regained his nerve, “I mean to say- he could be on the streets! I have to find him!” 

“I’ll search London.” Robert grumbled, “It’s my butler that’s missing, so I’ll call my office and have someone sweep the streets. A paid professional.” he added, just to salt the wound. “You on the other hand are going to stay right here until we figure out where Barrow went and why he didn’t come home. It could be the poor man has given up on this whole charade between the two of you- and who could blame him after being imprisoned unjustly for it.” 

The blood drained from Tom’s face. He looked away. 

“I don’t think it’s that, M’lord. “Bates spoke up as calmly as you please. Tom was hesitant to catch his eye. If anyone in the room beside Tom knew Thomas intimately, it was Bates. “Thomas has a way of acting without thinking. He probably fled on a base reaction to avoid us seeing his scars and now he’s hiding trying to figure out whether he should turn tail and come home or wait for us to find him.” Bates shrugged, “He’s fickle.” 

“He’s frightened.” Tom corrected him, irritable. Bates didn’t budge an inch, that calm unwavering stare slightly unnerving Tom. 

~*~

After speaking in Dr. Kinsey’s office, Thomas did not make to listen in at the tea room door again. 

He watched patients come and go, mostly women though men were scattered among them to. Many were young, some were old. There was even a very small child that looked to be no older than five among them, a quiet little boy who seemed very hesitant to approach anyone he did not know. He made Thomas think of George, causing an ugly stab of pain to hit his heart whenever he saw the child. 

He found himself keeping an eye out of windows, wondering if he might ever see a vile child abuser lurking in the shadows waiting to hurt Dr. Kinsey… but no one traveled the park save for women pushing prams and men taking their lunches on benches. 

Moonpie was a delight, which was apparently a unique experience in the house because no one else bothered to put up with the cat. Thomas would sit with her during his physical therapy with Gretchen, petting the Persian constantly as he sounded out difficult sentences and healed. He’d never seen a cat with such a unique lilac coat before and found it enchanting. Moonpie seemed to realize that Thomas was a devoted worshiper to her temple and had decided to bequeath him with her generosity. She often slept with him, curling up beside him to purr softly like a motorcar. 

Gretchen seemed impressed with his improvement, and after staying with Thomas for nearly two weeks she pulled away so that she only came infrequently during the day. Left to his own devices, Thomas continued his therapies alone in his makeshift bedroom. He struggled constantly with wanting to go, with wanting to stay. He longed for Tom, for Mrs. Hughes, for the abbey… but he was terrified of the world outside of Dr. Kinsey’s door. 

He knew one day it would get him; swallow him whole. 

Sometimes, however, the world came to call, forcing its way into the house so that even Thomas had to deal with it. 

 

One afternoon while in the middle of his daily ‘tribute’ to Moonpie’s ‘temple’, Thomas was brought to a pause by the sound of agitated talking outside his room. He’d never heard anyone shout in Dr. Kinsey’s house before, and the voice sounded unfamiliar. His first thought was the police, coming to get him and take him back to Wakefield. His second thought was Lord Grantham or Tom, coming to argue with him and berate him for not returning immediately to the abbey. His third thought, and the accurate one, was that Dr. Kinsey was having to deal with an angry patient. 

And that did not set right with him. 

Dr. Kinsey was his good friend and protector. The idea of him being yelled at, of being in danger, set Thomas’ heart pumping and Thomas left his room at once (with Moonpie following right behind, to scale the stairs. He found Alice at the bottom, seemingly hiding against the rail as she poked her head out to look down the hallway. Thomas approached from behind, cautiously looking around to see Dr. Kinsey in the hallway outside his tea room with an irate man carrying a top hat and cane next to a sulky and sullen girl about Daisy’s age. Despite her obvious wealth, there were black circles underneath her eyes from lack of sleep and her complexion was pale. 

Dr. Kinsey was dwarfed by the man in top hat and cane, his mouth set in a stern frown. He showed incredibly bravery, not backing down an inch despite how the man yelled at him. 

“What’s going on?” Thomas whispered to Alice. 

“It’s the father of a patient.” Alice whispered back, “He’s angry that Dr. Kinsey hasn’t been making better progress.” 

“What’s wrong with her?” Thomas asked, unable to stop himself as he took in the sullen girl. 

“She’s an arsonist.” Alice said, slightly amazed. “She tried to set her house on fire.” 

“Christ.” Thomas muttered, taken aback. He certainly hadn’t been expecting that. 

“How long has my daughter been under your care?” The father demanded, his voice rising. “And still she continues to light things on fire-!” 

The girl scowled and looked away, bitter. 

“Sir,” Dr. Kinsey said rather sharply, “I implore you to remember your surroundings. We can have this discussion in my office if you would like but I will not engage a patient’s records in public-“ 

“He doesn’t care!” The girl cut across, clearly bitter with her father, “He won’t listen! He never listens!” 

“I’ve heard incredibly wonders of new therapies-!” The father carried on in much too loud a tone, “A Choose Your Own Path that promises absolute wonders for those suffering with abnormalities. And still you are content to sit on your lazy arse and talk the day away! Where are the wonders of modern medicine?! Or is your flapper pill enough?!” 

But at the mention of ‘Choose Your Own Path’ Thomas grew irate. How dare this man insist that Dr. Kinsey wasn’t a good doctor? That he was wasting people’s time and money by talking to them instead of shoving dirty saline into their veins? Thomas saw red, storming down the rest of the stairs and whipping around the banister to charge up the hall. 

“Excuse me!” Thomas called out, furious. 

Dr. Kinsey saw him coming and paled. He threw out a hand, eyes wide to bark his name, “Thomas, stop-!” 

But Thomas would not stop. 

The man looked around, irate that a man of Thomas’ class would dare to even speak to him without a proper introduction. Thomas did not care, unafraid of the man’s wealth or his ivory cane. 

“I do hate to be a nuisance sir-“ Thomas said with so much sarcasm that his words were swimming, “But I am a prior patient of Choose Your Own Path and I can tell you that it is utterly useless! A sham content to take money and deny humanity to those unlucky enough to fall for its trap. I was given a vial of liquid to inject that was nothing more than unsterilized saline. It nearly killed me!” He added, furious. He could feel blotches of heat forming in his cheeks. The man gaped at him, flabbergasted, “If you are so intent on solving your daughter’s issues, then I suggest you sit down and actually talk to her instead of shoving her from one doctor to the next!” 

Dr. Kinsey put his hand on Thomas’ elbow.   
His grip was painfully tight. 

“Thomas.” Dr. Kinsey said in a deadly calm voice, “Please go back upstairs.”   
Thomas did not know if Dr. Kinsey was mad at him or afraid. Either way, Thomas refused to acknowledge it just then. 

“No, I won’t let this man say you’re a charlatan!” Thomas said proudly, “Not when you’ve done so much good and saved so many lives!” 

The man snorted in disbelief at this; his daughter blinked at Thomas owlishly, looking him up and down. 

“Lord Lancet-“ Dr. Kinsey murmured, trying to regain control of the situation. 

But Lord Lancet was no longer even looking at Dr. Kinsey. Instead he rounded on Thomas, and Thomas suddenly realized that Lord Lancet was a bully as he took a menacing step forward and forced Thomas to press himself flat against the hallway wall to avoid getting squashed by his girth. 

“Now look here, you little urchin.” Lord Lancet growled. Thomas swallowed, oddly wishing he had Lord Grantham at his side in that moment. “I don’t know who the hell you think you are, but my daughter is my main priority and I’ll do what I see best to care for her.” 

“But you can’t care for her!” Thomas barked, “You’re not a doctor! Dr. Kinsey is the one who’s been trained and understands her! Just because it doesn’t make sense to you doesn’t mean it isn’t working!” 

“How dare you speak to me!?” Lord Lancet thundered. Thomas shut his mouth at once. “Do you know who I am?!” 

“…No.” Thomas said. 

“I am a the eighth Earl of Lancet.” Lord Lancet declared proudly, “And you- whoever you are- are beyond reproach speaking to me out of turn.” 

“… I’m Thomas.” Thomas said, rather weakly, “And I— I serve an Earl. And you’re not acting very lordly in this moment are you? Pushing people around just because you’re fatter than them. You’re probably afraid of Dr. Kinsey because you know he’s smarter than you-!“ 

“Oh my god.” Dr. Kinsey put his hand over his face. dragging his fingers over his eyes to cup his mouth tightly. 

The daughter giggled, utterly delighted by the mayhem. At the stairs Alice’s mouth was hanging open at his lack of tact. 

“I’ve heard enough!” Lord Lancet looked irate at being called overweight, grabbing his daughter by the upper arm and dragging her down the hallway towards the front door. 

“Lord Lancet!” Dr. Kinsey called out, following after him. Thomas remained flattened against the wall. “I urge you-“ 

“Yes I’m sure you do.” Lord Lancet drawled from the door as Alice hastily opened it to let him out onto the street where a gleaming black motorcar was waiting at the curbside, “I’m sure you urge me to fill your pocket book every month until you can retire to the Alps.” 

And with that he took his daughter from the house, a storm cloud on the move as he slammed the iron gate to the property closed and shoved his daughter into the waiting car. Alice meekly closed the door to the house, looking back down the hall to where Dr. Kinsey was standing in silence quite defeated. 

Thomas was suddenly terrified, realizing how far over the boundaries of friendship he’d stepped just to ‘protect’ Dr. Kinsey from a man stupider than him. He looked away farther down the hall, touching his mouth with a trembling hand to try and hide the sweat forming upon his upper lip. Thomas nervously toyed with his stitches, feeling their solid contrast against his smooth skin. 

Dr. Kinsey said nothing, turning back down the hallway to look at Thomas where he stood hiding against the wall. 

“… I’m sorry.” Thomas fumbled, knowing that he ought to apologize and quickly before Dr. Kinsey threw him out of his house and onto the streets. “I’m so sorry, I just wanted to protect you.”   
When he glanced at Dr. Kinsey he found him smiling somberly. He didn’t look angry, merely tired, and raked a hand through his hair as Thomas glanced down at the floor to keep from appearing too forward. 

Dear god, what had he been thinking? Why couldn’t he control his damn mouth? 

“…You are very brave, Thomas Barrow.” Dr. Kinsey praised gently. “Though I’m sure you’ve been told that before.” 

He had once; Baxter had said as much when he’d gotten his absence lanced two years ago. Thomas felt rather foolish in this moment too and wondered if there was a connection somehow between foolishness and bravery. 

“Lord Lancet has been giving me problems for some time.” Dr. Kinsey admitted to both Alice and Thomas. There was no point in hiding the facts now, when Lord Lancet had displayed them so openly for all to hear, “His daughter is very ill, which of course is never to leave this house.” 

“No, doctor.” Alice said obediently. Thomas shook his head. 

“Is she…” Thomas mumbled, “Is she going to set him on fire?” 

“I think she’d rather set herself on fire.” Dr. Kinsey said, “She wants his attention and thinks fire is the way to get it. She’s not half wrong, it’s difficult to ignore something covered in flames.” 

“You’d think she could just steal something.” Thomas thought of how he’d nicked so much wine from Carson. 

“No- fire is more physical.” Dr. Kinsey urged. We have an immediate emotional reaction to something unnecessarily being on fire. We want to put it out. We want to address it before it catches other things on fire.” 

“Should we call the police?” Alice asked nervously. 

“No.” Dr. Kinsey assured her. “No, we’ll carry on and keep this little outburst to ourselves.” He paused, looking at Thomas reproachfully, “And just so we’re all aware, I haven’t saved ‘so many’ lives.” 

“…You’ve saved mine.” Thomas said, refusing to look at Dr. Kinsey. 

Dr. Kinsey just smiled and opened the door to the tea room. For the first time Thomas saw beyond it to see that it was a comprised of a sofa, two chairs, a coffee table and several house plants that were flourishing despite the cold winter outside. 

“We’ll take tea, Alice.” Dr. Kinsey said, gesturing for Thomas to follow him into the sitting room. 

For a moment Thomas did not move, sensing he was in trouble. But Dr. Kinsey was still smiling and he didn’t seem to be angry so much as concerned.   
He supposed it had something to do with openly admitting to going to ‘Choose Your Own Path’. Dr. Kinsey probably knew why he’d done it and wanted to talk about it. 

He timidly stepped into the tea room. Dr. Kinsey closed the door behind him. 

~*~

If there was anyone in the house that understood Elsie’s grief, it was Tom Branson. 

His Lordship had made good on his promise, hiring a private detective to comb London from top to bottom, starting in Elephant and Cross. So far the man had confirmed after interviewing fellow train passengers and people who worked in the area that Thomas had stepped off the train at Elephant and Cross and had (for whatever reason) wandered through the courtyard of the South London Polytechnic Institute before vanishing on the other side near the intersection of Burwall and Lancaster street. At this point, private houses and businesses overtook college campuses, the the investigator had settled for going door to door to find Thomas. So far he’d discovered nothing, but felt certain he was on the right path and would uncover Thomas soon. 

But days past and turned into weeks with no more clues, and Elsie began to slowly give up hope. Her fears ranged from the impossible to the imaginable… from Thomas being murdered and left in a ditch to Thomas being roped into some drug scheme and forced underground. The world seemed like a very unforgiving place now a days. 

Elsie was passing by the library, a clipboard underneath her arm that had once belonged to Thomas. She’d spent all day looking at his sharp handwriting, noting how he’d constantly crossed things out or amended Mr. Carson’s tight cursive. In a way it felt like she could be near Thomas again, if only to hold his things and remember he’d once held them too. 

She paused, noting a figure sitting alone in the library by the expansive window that looked out over the south lawn. Tom Branson was absolutely silent with Sybbie asleep on his nap. He seemed to have a list before him, and was scratching it off as he went through large volumes of geographical papers. 

It was probably something for the house, being the agent. 

But as Elsie entered the library, she paused to see that it was actually maps of London. Tom seemed to have been marked them with a pen, circling areas that he thought possible for Thomas to be hiding in. 

Tom paused, looking up to see her in the doorway. He looked back down at the maps and capped his pen. On his lap, Sybbie slept peacefully, snoring slightly with her pert little mouth open. 

“…I felt such joy when I thought he’d be coming home.” Tom admitted, looking back to Elsie in the door, “Now all I feel is fear.” 

Elsie regarded him; how handsome he was, how silent. She tried to imagine the love between him and Thomas; the connection. How it was that two radicals and idealists had become so calm with one another. 

“I know that fear.” Elsie admitted, careful to keep her voice down lest she wake the child, 

She’d not told anyone about her wish besides Mr. Carson, but decided on the spot that she would tell Tom simply because Tom loved Thomas, and maybe Tom could understand. 

“I want to adopt him.” She said. Tom did a double take, slightly shocked. 

“Really?” He murmured. She nodded. Tom though it over, sighing as he relaxed in his chair a bit, “You’re going to have to reel Mr. Carson in when they start fighting at the dinner table.” 

“Oh, I don’t know if I can.” Elsie joked with a small smile. “Besides. He declined my offer in prison, so apparently he doesn’t want me to be his mother.” 

She tried to keep the bitterness in her voice small. 

“He was trying to protect you, Mrs. Hughes.” Tom murmured, “I know him. I know him like I know myself. He’s always cared greatly for your opinion, and I believe he values your relationship highly. He was probably afraid of you being hurt.” 

“… Maybe I don’t care if I get hurt.” Elsie said, emotion rising within her like a tide. 

Tom looked away out the window, carefully stroking Sybbie’s hair. She continued to sleep, undisturbed.

“…He’s hiding, Tom.” Elsie felt that Tom needed to hear these words from someone else, even if she feared he was dead in her heart, “He’s frightened of being rejected by you, nothing more. He’s not angry at you. And he’s certainly not ashamed. He probably thinks you’ll imagine him ugly with his mouth scarred, the silly vain lamb.” 

“I’d love him if he was covered in shit.” Tom cursed darkly. 

“He was just about, in that place.” 

“They won’t let me go look for him. They know I’ll sneak off to Wakefield and try to murder whoever the fuck did that to him.” 

“Tom.” Elsie chastised him, “You are above such language.” 

“The fuck I am.” Tom cursed again, “Here I am on my fat arse wastin away and the love of my life is hidin’ from me. If you think I’m above sayin’ ‘fuck’.” 

“You say it again, and I’ll scrub your tongue with ashes.” Elsie warned. Tom fell awkwardly silent. “… I know how you feel Tom,” She carried on, “I wish I could search London too.” 

“Why can’t you?” Tom asked, looking around. Elsie was slightly taken aback. 

…Now that she thought about it, why couldn’t she? Mrs. Baxter had taken over her old position, and she had the money to travel (though certainly not out of country). Perhaps it would do her well to travel to London for a few days! She could Elephant and Cross a firm sweeping over, maybe even meet with the private detective his Lordship was using. 

“I could.” Elsie was amazed. Tom seemed to perk up, sitting a little better in his chair. His brown eyes flashed. “I could to that! I could leave tonight- book a hotel, I’m sure-“ 

“Would you truly do that?” Tom sounded like he dare not hope. Elsie smiled. 

“I’ll find him, Tom.” She suddenly felt very certain of herself in that moment, “I won’t rest until I do.” 

The smile he gave her was a weak, emotional thing but it meant the world to her.   
She felt empowered in that moment. Brave! 

~*~

 

Dr. Kinsey was true to his word, taking tea with Thomas in his counseling room while outside the sun slowly began to set. Moonpie had smelt the tuna spread being laid out for crackers and had come running, collar jingling and bottle brush tail in the air. Now she sat in Thomas’ lap while Dr. Kinsey sipped tea, relaxing against the far chair with his notepad over his lap and his pen twirling in his hand. 

Thomas ate a tuna cracker only to let Moonpie lick his fingers, “You want to talk about it.” He stated. Not a question. 

“Hmm?” Dr. Kinsey tilted his head, “Talk about what?” 

“Don’t play with me, Dr. Kinsey.” Thomas said reproachfully. Dr. Kinsey gave him a tiny smile. 

“You didn’t have to defend me, Thomas.” Dr. Kinsey said softly. 

“Yes, I did.” Thomas corrected him. 

“Well, you were very brave to do it.” Dr. Kinsey said, looking away, “Lord Lancet is a very difficult man. He appreciates the physical world around him, and my world is unfortunately not physical. We found it difficult to come to terms on that.” 

“Well fire is physical.” Thomas muttered nastily, feeding Moonpie another piece of tuna spread. Her revealed fangs gently poked him as her sandpaper tongue scraped his skin. 

“So is unsterilized saline.” Dr. Kinsey said. Thomas looked away, unable to meet his eyes, “Choose Your Own Path? For someone as brave as you it seems out of character.” 

“It was stupid.” Thomas agreed. Perhaps he’d known all along that it couldn’t be changed. Maybe he’d just wanted to hurt himself. Perhaps it had been his first attempt at suicide, completely unbeknownst to himself. 

“I wouldn’t say that.” Dr. Kinsey tilted his head left and right, scribbling something down on his pad, “I would say that it was-“ 

“A waste of time?” Thomas grumbled, “A pathetic attempt to change something that can’t be changed?” 

“A lapse in courage.” Dr. Kinsey said. 

“Cowardice.” Thomas said. Dr. Kinsey shrugged. 

“We’re all allowed to be a coward from time to time.” Dr. Kinsey continued to write on his pad before twirling his pen in his hand again. 

“… I hope to God Lord Lancet doesn’t take his daughter to that place.” Thomas whispered. The girl had been so pale and thin; he doubted she’d survive. 

“We must content ourselves with what we can change.” Dr. Kinsey advised, “Remember not everything is under our control. What happens to Patricia Lancet is now beyond our means. We must focus on what is in front of us. On what we can still turn to our advantage. I tell myself this just as I tell you the same to dry and deal with the pain that I too feel…. when I can’t help someone I take it to heart.” Dr. Kinsey said with a small smile. 

Thomas caught his eye, gaze burning with intensity, “You helped me.” Dr. Kinsey smiled, “and I’m very grateful.” 

“I’m glad.” Dr. Kinsey said. But he didn’t seem to mean it. He was beginning to frown, watching Thomas feed tuna to Moonpie. 

“…Thomas.” Dr. Kinsey spoke up. Thomas caught his eyes again. “You have to let the mouse go.” 

Thomas blinked. “I know.” He murmured, looking back down to where Moonpie was purring loudly. 

“…You made a promise to him.” Dr. Kinsey said, “You promised to free him, but he’s in a vase. And you’re in my house… and that doesn’t sound like freedom to me, does it?” 

“No.” He admitted. He didn’t need to be in Dr. Kinsey’s house and Butterbean didn’t need to be in a vase full of marbles. Both of them were out of their element. 

Dr. Kinsey shifted, setting aside his notepad and rising up from his chair. “Come on.” He said, urging Thomas onto his feet. Moonpie had to shift over, settling onto the couch to grab a mouthful of tuna spread off of the tea tray. “Moonpie-!” Dr. Kinsey grouched, grabbing the can of spread and moving it onto the mantel above a boarded up fire place. “Christ.” 

They left the sitting room, and Thomas followed obediently as Dr. Kinsey lead him to the office. Moonpie followed, meowing pitifully at their heels for more tuna spread. She would receive none of it as Dr. Kinsey pulled Butterbean out of his vase by the tail to put him in Thomas’ hands. The mouse went willingly, and the pair of them left the house exiting out the front door while Alice stepped into the sitting room to clean their tea tray. 

Thomas had not been outside in weeks, and winced at the strength of the sunlight. The air smelt and clean and fresh. The air was cool but warming up as winter finally released its icy grip inch by inch. He sniffed, eyes pinched shut as he waited for them to adjust to the light. Dr. Kinsey waited patiently, and when Thomas could finally see without wincing led them down the front steps. 

“This was my mother’s house.” Dr. Kinsey said. “I was born here… when she died it became my practice. Of course, the whole thing hinged on me taking in the cat. It was her third child, you know. And her worst behaved one at that.” 

“Were you the older or the younger son?” Thomas asked, curious. 

“I was the first born.” Dr. Kinsey said, pausing to look both ways before he crossed the street. On the other side of his street there was a park, small but cozy, and it seemed Dr. Kinsey’s destination. He picked a bench at random, no longer having to dust off snow in order to sit down. Thomas came to his side, sensing they’d reached their destination as Dr. Kinsey took in great lungfuls of fresh air, slowly relaxing as he cracked his neck and reached an arm across the back of the bench. Thomas, on the other hand, sat upright and quiet. It was a mark of their classes and occupations. Dr. Kinsey was middle class, able to do as he pleased as his own boss. Thomas was lower class, and had learned in his life how to cater to the upper class without being obtuse. Perhaps that was why talking back to Lord Lancet had made him so nervous. 

God he hoped Lord Lancet didn’t know Lord Grantham. 

“It’s nice, isn’t it?” Dr. Kinsey cast a hand out at the deep greens and red fragrant in the park. As the sun slowly set, the park became a swirl of autumn colors despite the season being early spring. “I like it. I often sit here and have my lunch.” 

“Are there hawks?” Thomas asked, looking up into the trees. He could see a squirrel nest, shown bare without leaves on the trees 

“No.” Dr. Kinsey shrugged, “It’s too far into the city.” 

“Stray cats?” Thomas thought of Moonpie, “Does Moonpie come out there?” 

At this, Dr. Kinsey laughed outright, a hard unhumored laugh. He sighed loudly, turning his head to catch Thomas’ eye. Thomas raised an eyebrow. 

“Thomas.” Dr. Kinsey sneered for the first time, “That cat won’t even go into the basement, if her paws touched dirt she’d die of the shock.” 

Thomas smiled. 

Dr. Kinsey sighed softly, still smiling. He looked back out across the park, taking a moment to let the silence grow comfortable between them before speaking again, “How do you want to do this?” 

“… I guess…” Thomas looked down at his hands where Butterbean was sitting, quite at ease, “I just… have to put him down, don’t I.” 

“You have to trust a universe that brought you Wakefield and Tom Branson.” Dr. Kinsey said, “That brought you a cop with a knife and a cop with a scarf.” He tilted his head to the side. “The universe is a funny place.” 

Yes. It was. 

There were wheat fields wide and rich; there were barren slopes where nothing grew. There were crows, cats, feral dogs, and lizards the size of top hats but there were also gardens full of fresh fruit and vegetables, hay soft and warm, and tunnels deep in the earth that offered protection from the rain. Thomas could no more separate one from the other than he could separate his skull from his spinal column. 

“I’m a coward to hold onto this mouse.” Thomas said, thinking of Choose Your Own Path and how he’d been just as afraid to accept the facts. 

“It’s alright to be afraid, Thomas.” Dr. Kinsey said, “But you still have to live your life. That’s the trick of courage.” 

Were they talking about the mouse now, or Thomas himself? 

“Do you want a minute alone to say goodbye?” Dr. Kinsey asked.   
Thomas looked down at the mouse in the palm of his hands and nodded. Dr. Kinsey got up from the park bench and walked several paces away, stretching his hands high above his head so that a watch accidentally fell out of his waist pocket and dangled loosely upon its Albert chain. He quickly scooped it back up, tucking it in before it could fall onto the grass. 

Thomas looked down at Butterbean in his hands. The mouse was curious, poking his head out around Thomas’ fingers to see the park in which they sat. Clearly he’d missed being outside in fresh air and good greenery. 

Thomas supposed, as he looked about, he’d fulfilled his promise. 

“…Here it is.” He said to the mouse, “I promised I’d bring you somewhere safe.” 

Butterbean perked up at this, nose twitching feverishly. 

“Thank you for being so kind to me, and protecting me the best you could.” Thomas mumbled. He wondered if Butterbean could even understand him. He doubted it. “I know you’re a mouse, and you can’t understand me.” 

Butterbean crawled onto Thomas’ trouser leg, making a bee line for his knee cap. Thomas realized how silly he was to say goodbye to a mouse who couldn’t understand him and would probably die before May. But he was sentimental and stupid, and couldn’t let it go. 

“It’s up to you now.” Thomas sighed, voice quivering slightly.   
He bent over and gently set Butterbean down on the grass at his feet. At first the mouse merely crawled around, scoping his surroundings. 

Then, quick as a shot, Butterbean jetted off towards the trees and the shelter he could no doubt find at their roots. Despite being much heavier than when Thomas had acquired him, Butterbean did not waddle and seemed to be fast enough to avoid any predator he might encounter. 

Thomas pinched his brow, eyes squinted shut.   
He felt a gentle hand upon his shoulder. 

“I’m crying over a mouse.” Thomas couldn’t believe himself. If O’Brien could see him now, she’d eat him alive, “I’m such a fool.” 

“I’ve very proud of you for letting him go.” Dr. Kinsey said, “That took great courage.” 

Thomas sniffed, wiping his eyes several times before cursing himself and rising back to his feet. 

“Now, let’s go back inside.” Dr. Kinsey clapped him warmly on the shoulder, steering him back across the street towards the house, “And let’s try not to call any more of my patients fat. Or stupid.” 

“But he was-“ 

“Thomas.” 

~*~

Elsie left shortly after her conversation with Tom, and returned home claiming to have a headache. She’d bade Charles to have dinner with the other servants, saying that she felt too ill to cook. The honest to god truth was that she wouldn’t be able to cook and pack at the same time. 

Elsie had decided she wouldn’t pack much in her valise save for a few clothes and some basic necessities. She’d go to London for a week, and search Elephant and Cross from top to bottom until she made some headway. If the private detective would make time to see, she would take tea with him and catch up on his latest leads. The idea of running around London on her own with Charles’ explicit permission was slightly terrifying, but she would wait until he got home from work to tell him her plan. No matter his answer, she was going. Part of her was terrified to go against her husband should she disagree. She’d been raised to believe that the men of the house had the final word, and it didn’t set right with her that she might go against this ground principle. At the same time, the terror inside of her of losing Thomas was just as great. She was stuck between two desperate pulls and was unsure which one would win in the end. 

Around ten thirty, Elsie heard the front door open, and looked nervously over her shoulder before resuming packing. 

She heard Charles come up the stairs, probably to check on her thinking she might be asleep. 

The door opened; Elsie kept her back to Charles, focusing rather awkwardly on the valise in front of her. Had it always been so difficult to do up these leather straps. 

“Elsie?” Charles’ horror spiked a hot coil of guilt to uncurl in her stomach. She felt flooded with shame. 

“I know you’re going to be angry with me.” She wavered, glancing over her shoulder to find Charles quite hurt. ‘But… I have to go to London. I have to find him.” 

Charles grimaced. He came up behind her, putting his hands gently upon her arms. She shrugged him off, desperately tugging at the leather straps. 

“Elsie- Elsie!” He took her in his arms again, holding her back against his chest to wrap himself about her stomach. Elsie was betrayed by the grief inside of her which welled up at the worst times. 

“Elsie we are too old-“ 

“I don’t care if I’m eighty!” She begged, “I have to find him!” 

“See reason- listen to me!” He barked when she struggled, bringing her to pause, “As your husband, listen to me.” 

And so she did, falling slack in his arms. Charles held her lovingly, burying his face in her hair. 

“It is winter.” He murmured, “And your’e sixty five, and London is a massive labyrinth filled with pickpockets and criminals. His Lordship has hired a private investigator searching Elephant and Cross up and down. If Thomas so much as steps into daylight, we’ll know-“ 

“But what if he can’t step?” Elsie turned around in Charles’ hold so that they were staring at one another face to face, “What if he’s in trouble? What if he’s dead-“ 

“Hush.” Charles took her face in his hands trying to sooth her. 

“Don’t tell me to hush!” She cried out. She would not be soothed, “What if he’s dead?!” She demanded, crying out her worst fear to the universe at large. “What then, Charlie? Do we just— keep going on with our lives?” 

Charles said nothing to this, somehow able to accept the ugly awful truth of what might very well be the final outcome. He looked pained but… aware. And Elsie could not bear to be both. 

She looked away, her face crumpling. 

Charles held her again, scooping her against his chest so that she could weep into the front of his livery. 

“When it rains, I fear he’s wet.” She admitted, blubbering, “When it snows I fear he’s cold. Beryl has Daisy and I know there was a time when I thought he was a little imp… but when I look at him now, I see my son. When I look at our guest room, I see my son’s room. He told me-“ She sniveled, wiping her eyes, “He told me once he had to stick a spoon down his throat just so that his mother would hold him. I couldn’t help but imagine…. imagine him as a wee thing…” 

Images filled her mind. Of Thomas as a small child running pell mell about the house causing mayhem and delight. 

“Toddling around our cottage in trousers I’d sown… playing in our garden… tending to our chickens-“ They didn’t even have chickens, “Helping make dinner… Drawing flowers in his sketchpad…” 

Charles rubbed her back methodically. 

“I want him back.” She wept, wishing she could scream it out to the universe and get her answer at last, “I want him back so badly I can’t stand it.” 

“Put your faith in God, Elsie.” Charles whispered in her ear, “Put your faith in his providence. He will deliver Thomas to us.” 

“But what if he abandons us?” Elsie whimpered, sounding more like a heathen now than she ever had in her life. If only her mother could hear her now, what would she say? 

“He won’t.” Charles’ faith would not be shaken. In their generation, religion had been instilled at an early age. “Tomorrow, we will call Dr. Kinsey— the psychologist who works from London?” He picked her up underneath the chin, smiling tenderly at her. Elsie blinked away tears, amazed that she hadn’t considered the option before. “Yes? Let’s see what he has to say. Perhaps he could aid us in our grief?” 

“Oh…” She could not help but feel slightly silly now. “How clever you are. I- I didn’t even think about that.” 

“We’ll call him tomorrow.” Charles decided, “And sleep well tonight.” 

He kissed her softly upon the forehead.   
Elsie closed her eyes. 

~*~

After letting go of Butterbean, Thomas felt oddly light and free. He still was unsure about leaving the house, but at least he didn’t feel the nagging guilt of keeping a creature prisoner. Butterbean was meant to be outside, exploring the English countryside, or London’s many fine parks. Moonpie on the other hand was a creature bred for comforts. 

And Thomas’ sole profession was to give those bred for comforts their comforts. 

“What a beautiful kitty…” Thomas spoke in a baby voice, brushing Moonpie with a comb handled in porcelain. Moonpie purred loudly, quite content to be pampered. Thomas and Kinsey were taking lunch in Kinsey’s office like a pair of heathens, eating salmon cakes off of cotton napkins with lemonade and grapes to pluck off. 

“Such a beautiful beautiful kitty…” Thomas spoke through puckered lips, brushing Moonpie in long deep strokes from her ears to her tail. Her lilac fur gleamed pink like the softest light of dusk. Her pointed fangs, revealed from an overbite, were dripping with saliva and contentment. 

“I should warn you, that cat is spoiled rotten.” Dr. Kinsey said, pulling out a cigarette and striking it up. He puffed out a few rings, the smell of clove filling the air. 

“Such a good good kitty.” Thomas wouldn’t hear of the word ‘spoiled’. Cats like Moonpie deserved to be spoiled. “such a very good kitty. Are you spoiled? No. No you’re not. You’re perfect.” 

Thomas broke off a piece of his salmon cake and fed it to Moonpie who gobbled it up greedily, licking the juices from the sides of his fingers. 

“Oh for god’s sake Thomas-“ Dr. Kinsey rolled his eyes, “That’s supposed to be your lunch, not hers!” 

Sharing was caring. 

The telephone on Dr. Kinsey’s desk began to ring, and Dr. Kinsey stubbed out his cigarette quickly to sit up straight in his chair and pick up the phone from its cradle. 

“Dr. Robert Kinsey!” Dr. Kinsey said, using his free hand to pull out a pen and a piece of paper in case his caller had demands. 

He stopped short eyes wide. Thomas watched him carefully, wondering who was on the other end. 

If he’d known, he probably would have run from the room screaming. 

_“Dr. Kinsey this is Mrs. Hughes of Downton Abbey. I hope I’m not interrupting anything but I desperately need to talk to you.”_ Dr. Kinsey made no indication of who was in his ear, instead twirling his pen in his hand like normal. 

“I see. How can I help you?” Dr. Kinsey flashed Thomas a small smile, striking up a new cigarette just to look natural. 

_“Oh, the most awful thing has happened!”_ Mrs. Hughes voice broke with emotion, causing a pang of to shoot through Kinsey’s heart. _“Thomas was jailed back in February for attempted self-murder, and he got out on the 16th of March but he took a train and vanished! He didn’t come home and now he’s been missing for weeks! We can’t find him and we’ve looked everywhere. I feel for certain he must be dead.”_

“No, no!” Dr. Kinsey urged at once; from the floor of his office Thomas watched him cautiously, “No, I assure you there are a thousand more options than just that one. I know you must be a panic but try not to give in to pessimism!” 

_“How can I not Doctor?”_ Mrs. Hughes sniffed heavily, _“We know he’s gone to London but his Lordship’s contacts haven’t been able to find him. Where ever he’s been, he’s been indoors or underground. What if he’s dead? What if he’s floating in the Thames somewhere and we just don’t know? Oh- and it gets worse!”_ Mrs. Hughes added, sniffling heavily, _“The last time I saw Thomas I went to visit him in prison, and his face had been hacked at with a knife!”_

“Who could have done such a thing?” Dr. Kinsey demanded, pretending to be affronted when he already knew the whole story. He opened his filing cabinet with one hand, rifling heavily through all his files until he found Thomas’. He opened it upon his desk, flipping to the back pages to write down that Mrs. Hughes had called only to accidentally knock a few internal pages loose so that he had to push them back inside. 

One of them was a medical release form. Dr. Kinsey paused, eyes growing wide as he spotted Mrs. Hughes’ signature. 

Of course! How could he have forgotten!? 

It must have been the shock of seeing Thomas bloodied and rattled upon his doorstep. In all the insanity of the past few weeks, Dr. Kinsey had been juggling current patients and Thomas’ growing health to the point of hectic mania. He’d forgotten that the last time he’d seen Thomas (when Thomas had revealed the truth about his ‘marbles’) Mrs. Hughes had been sitting on the bed beside him— had signed a waver! 

Which meant that legally he could tell her everything and damn it all to heck-!   
Except that Thomas was on the floor… staring at him. 

Dr. Kinsey flashed him another smile. 

_“Oh.”_ Mrs. Hughes sighed, distraught, _“We just don’t know. It had to be another prisoner or a guard. I don’t know which option is worse. I can’t hardly bear to think about it when I wanted… when I wanted…”_

Mrs. Hughes voice broke. Dr. Kinsey’s smile drop. 

“Take your time.” He soothed her gently. “I’m listening.” 

_“I wanted to adopt him.”_ Mrs. Hughes whimpered, clearly holding back tears as best she could, _“I talked with Mr. Carson… and… and we agreed that- that it would just improve our lives so much. I want him back. I want my son back-“_ and at this she wept openly. 

Dr. Kinsey was flabbergasted. His cigarette nearly fell out of his mouth. 

“But…” Dr. Kinsey felt like he was missing a key part of this story, “But I didn’t realize that this was the case. If I’d known-!” 

If he’d known he would have called them weeks ago. He caught Thomas’ eyes again. 

_“I don’t know what to do.”_ Mrs. Hughes whimpered. 

“What you need to do is to come see me.” Dr. Kinsey urged. “As soon as possible. I can clear my appointments-“ 

_“But Doctor, what good will it do?”_ Mrs. Hughes wondered sniveling, _“You live in London, you know how big it is!”_

“Listen to me very carefully.” Dr. Kinsey used a stern tone, praying she got the message. “Come see me. Do you understand I’m saying to you?” 

There was a beat of silence. 

_“…Have you…”_ Mrs. Hughes sniveled. _”Have you seen him?”_ A hint of hope began to light up her voice. 

“We’ll discuss it more when you arrive.” Dr. Kinsey said smugly, “Come tomorrow, catch the first train you’re able.” 

_“Oh!”_ Mrs. Hughes cried out from the other end, _“Oh, you have seen him haven’t you?! But- But why haven’t you told me anything?! Why didn’t you call?!”_

“I assure you, madam, I work is strictest confidence.” Dr. Kinsey had to dice his words at this point, “If a patient tells me something in confidence I cannot break her or his trust. Now what time can I pencil you in for?” 

_“Oh!”_ Mrs. Hughes was clearly fumbling on the other end of the phone, _“Um- tomorrow! At… At… Noon at the very latest! Thank you so much doctor!”_

“I’ll have a taxi meet you at Elephant and Cross.” Dr. Kinsey said, jotting down the details on his notes. “He’ll take you to my residence. It’s not to far. We’ll discuss the rest when you arrive. I want you to sleep peacefully tonight… Try to put it out of your mind, and wake up refreshed ready to seize the day anew.” 

_“Oh thank you doctor!”_ She sounded positively elated by this point. Dr. Kinsey grinned, but his smirk must have appeared slightly malicious for Thomas raised an eyebrow in concern. _“Thank you so much! I’ll be there tomorrow and I’ll bring Mr. Carson with me! Oh thank you! Thank you!”_

And with that she hung up the phone. 

“Who was that?” Thomas asked as Dr. Kinsey set down the phone. 

“A very concerned mother.” Dr. Kinsey said, “Her child, one of my former patients, ran away. She’s out of her wits trying to find him- can you imagine, searching London for one person? It would feel like going through a haystack for a needle.” Dr. Kinsey sighed, slurping his now cooled tea. He belched, and Thomas narrowed his eyes. 

“Don’t do that.” Thomas muttered, “It’s unbecoming of a gentleman.” 

“I have horrible table manors.” Dr. Kinsey admitted, “You know my weakness now.” 

“Sit up straight in your chair.” Thomas added. Kinsey did so at once, “And get your elbows off the desk- what is wrong with you?” 

Thomas then turned his attentions to Moonpie, whom he continued to groom and feed salmon cake to, “I want this cat.” He proclaimed. 

“Oh, please. I beg of you.” Dr. Kinsey sneered in that rare sarcastic voice of his, “Take her.” 

~*~ 

The next morning came and went without incident, though it rained for the first time instead of snowing. Thomas lounged inside, incredibly lazy as he napped with Moonpie. Little did he know that downstairs Dr. Kinsey was pacing by the door, checking his pocket watch almost constantly to see when it would be noon. He’d bade Alice to get together a proper tea tray, warning her she would be serving a butler and a housekeeper. The poor girl had been scared stiff, and had spent the entire morning polishing silver with the second day maid Dorris. 

Dr. Kinsey finally grew tired of waiting by the door and instead retired to his office, but had no sooner sat down in his chair and opened a book than he’d faced Alice knocking. 

“They’re here.” was all Alice said. Dr. Kinsey all but sprang from his chair. 

Sure enough in the foyer of his mother’s home, Mrs. Hughes and Mr. Carson stood with coats and umbrellas dripping. They carried valises between them, and seemed incredibly fretful with Mrs. Hughes pale and Mr. Carson wearing a stiff lower lip. Dr. Kinsey greeted them at once, stepping forward to warmly shake both their hands. 

“Dr. Kinsey.” Mrs. Hughes shook his head with gusto, “Thank you so much for taking time to see us.” 

“Please, come in.” He urged, showing them the way down the hall towards the tea room where he often took his patients. Alice scooted off through the green baize door to collect tea for their guests, and Dr. Kinsey closed the door after Mr. Carson’s back so that Thomas would not hear their voices upstairs. 

Mrs. Hughes and Mr. Carson both shed their coats, hanging them on a hat stand just behind the tea room door. They sat their valises to the side, no doubt carrying clothes and toiletries should they need to stay multiple nights to ‘find’ Thomas. Little did they know Thomas had already been ‘found’. 

“I gather you’ve seen him, Doctor?” Mr. Carson asked, sitting down hesitantly on the couch next to Mrs. Hughes. Alice entered, a polished tea tray in hand, and sat the entire display down before Mrs. Hughes and Mr. Carson. She curtsied, trying to look proper but Mr. Carson seemed irritated that they’d even been interrupted at all. 

Alice fled from the room, shutting the door at once behind her. Mr. Carson looked down at the tea set, picking up one of the fine china cups and observing it closely. Clearly he was not impressed. 

“You’ll have to forgive Alice.” Dr. Kinsey said, “She’s not been classically trained as a house maid, and I hardly have footmen to do the actual polishing.” 

Mr. Carson set down the tea cup, rolling his eyes and pouring Mrs. Hughes a brew. 

“Have you seen him, Doctor?” Mrs. Hughes protested, wringing her hands. She seemed incapable of doing the most meagre of things, whether it be drinking tea or anything else. 

“Oh yes.” Dr. Kinsey poured himself a cup of tea, garnishing it with lemon, “Yes, I’ve seen him.” 

“But-!” Mr. Carson was irate , “But if you’d seen him, why didn’t you call us and tell us!? We’ve been worried sick for weeks!” 

“Mr. Carson,” Dr. Kinsey set down his tea irritably, “I’m a doctor, and I live underneath a very strict code of patient confidentiality. If a patient comes to me, bloody, beaten, frightened out of his mind and says “I didn’t know what to do, tell no one I’m here. I can never show my face again”…” Dr. Kinsey threw up his hands, “My hands are tied. There is nothing I can do. But!” Dr. Kinsey added before Mr. Carson could get a temper, “Yesterday when Mrs. Hughes called, I saw in Thomas’ file a sheet that she’d signed the last time we’d spoken. A waver of confidentiality! Technically, I can tell her what I’ve seen and heard in regards to Thomas, because she has signed a legal document in sane mind… and Thomas signed it too.” Dr. Kinsey clapped his hands at this. 

“I know that Thomas has been wounded.” Dr. Kinsey said, “I know because he came to me the day he ran from York! He took the train to Elephant and Cross, got off, wandered through the London Institute, and ended up on my street! Call it fate, call it good fortune, call it whatever you want… but the fact of the matter is that Thomas Barrow has been at this house the entire time you’ve been searching for him. The reason why no one saw him in London was because he wasn’t wandering the streets. He was hiding here.” Dr. Kinsey tapped the coffee table with his finger. 

Mrs. Hughes emitted the tiniest gasp, looking up at the ceiling overhead where a small chandelier hung. It was as if she was waiting for Thomas to drop out of the sky. 

“He’s upstairs asleep.” Dr. Kinsey said, “I’ve been letting him nap all morning. He’s been living in my guest bedroom. I think he may be adopting my mother’s Persian cat, which I appreciate since I never cared for the animal, “At this he paused, remembering Mrs. Hughes’ protests that she and Mr. Carson wanted to adopt Thomas. “You don’t by chance have allergies, do you?” 

The Carson’s stared at him, confused.

~*~

Upstairs, Thomas rolled a bit on the bed, taking Moonpie with him. He held the Persian close, kissing her soft lilac coat. 

“Oh Miss Moonpie.” Thomas mumbled into her fur, “What would I do without you?”   
She purred her approval. 

A soft knock at the door caused Thomas to stir, and he sat up in bed as the door opened to reveal the maid Alice. She dipped her head in greeting. 

“You have guests waiting for you in the tea room.” Alice said, and shut the door. 

Thomas looked down at Moonpie still purring upon his shared pillow.   
God he hoped Lord Lancet hadn’t come back to visit. 

 

Thomas dressed, combing his hair back and putting on a borrowed day suit of Dr. Kinsey’s though he didn’t bother with a jacket. He did, however, put on shoes just for show. Moonpie meowed, leaping from the bed to follow him out of the bedroom as he traversed the hallway and scaled the stairs. Down they went, two peas in a pod, with Thomas leading the way as he carefully laced Lord Grantham’s pocket watch in his waist coat and smoothed his dark blue handkerchief down upon his breast. He ran his hands through his hair one last time before the tea room door, mentally cursing himself for running his mouth off to an Earl, and opened the door. 

To promptly stop in the doorway. 

Dr. Kinsey was sitting upon his guest chair, a note pad and pen in hand. Instead of a patient upon his couch however, there was Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes, both of whom looked frightened out of their wits as they rose to their feet and gaped at him. In an act of good will that unknowingly doomed him, Alice shut the door so that Thomas was trapped in the tea room with Dr. Kinsey and the others. Moonpie made it through just in time and meowed at his feet, brushing against his legs in an attempt to garner his attention again. 

Thomas found breath hard to come to his chest, and stuttered, looking away to the wall.   
How had they found him? Were they here to chastise him? To berate him?   
To fire him? 

“…Thomas.” Mrs. Hughes said his name like a broken woman. 

“Sleep well?” Dr. Kinsey asked, as if nothing was out of the ordinary and they were all happy to take tea together. “Why don’t you step away from the door for five minutes so you can address your good friends properly. They’ve come a long way to see you today.” 

Thomas bowed his head, embarrassment flushing his cheeks. He didn’t even know what to say anymore and shook his head. 

Mrs. Hughes came slowly around the couch, as if fearing he might vanish should she approach too suddenly. 

“…Won’t you look at me?” She begged him softly. 

Thomas shook his head. At his feet Moonpie kept meowing, so he bent down and picked her up, holding her tightly to his chest. She purred, content to be the center of attention again. 

“Thomas is quite taken with my cat.” Dr. Kinsey said in the silence, “I’m hoping he’ll leave with her if they bond well enough.” 

“Turn around.” Mr. Carson cut across; his voice was not as emotional as Mrs. Hughes but it was clear that he too desired to see Thomas’ face. “Let us see your face.” 

“No.” Thomas’ voice was broken, and he damned himself in that moment. He’d wanted to be strong, to hold himself together… but memories of Wakefield were rushing back to him. Of cells, flooded floors, meagre soups, gruel, and stale bread. Of a whores bath and metal vambraces. Thomas shuddered bowing his head. Moonpie seemed to sense his distress and licked his neck carefully. 

“I’m a monster now.” Thomas murmured, “I’m an ex-con, and my mouth is… is scarred.” Thomas sniffed, “ I can never work at Downton again. How will his Lordship stand my presence in the drawing room or the dining hall. He won’t be able to focus on his food.” 

“His lordship is very sorry to hear of your troubles.” Mrs. Hughes urged him at once, her voice quivering again, “He only wants things to return to normal-“ 

“But you see, things can never be normal now.” Thomas cut across her, uncaring if it made him rude, “I will never look normal again, every time you see my face, all you’ll see is…” But he couldn’t find an appropriate word in his jaded repertoire and fell silent. 

A hand on his shoulder made him jump. Mrs. Hughes had decided to take measures into her own hands, and turned him carefully until, for the first time in over a month, they were facing each other eye to eye. 

Thomas could recall so clearly seeing her across the table in jail. How she’d begged to be his mother. How he’d had to deny her if only to protect her from Barsette whom he’d felt so certain would try to harm her should he find out how important she was to Thomas. 

Mrs. Hughes, who had bought him a sketchpad and charcoals to draw with. 

“All I will see is you.” Mrs. Hughes said thickly, her brown eyes watering though tears did not fall. She was a strong woman, even in this state, “There is no amount of change or trail that would not allow me to see you exactly for who you are.” She took both his cheeks in her hands, brushing his tight clean titches with her thumbs, “A naughty child who needs to get his hand smacked.” 

Thomas scoffed softly, amazed at her strength of will.   
Mrs. Hughes stroked his cheeks with such tenderness, her eyes growing mistier by the second. 

“My naughty child.” She whispered.   
He shook his head. 

“Mrs. Hughes.” He whispered, sniffing so as to keep decent, “I- I know in Wakefield you… You wanted to- but. But can you see now that there is no need? That it won’t do any good-?” Mrs. Hughes put her fingers over his lips to shush him. 

“Don’t I get a say in what would do me good?” She asked thickly, just a touch of sarcasm entering her soft voice, “Or do you have to know everything?” 

That was a very good question, but Thomas would let it wait for another day. He gave her a tiny smile. 

“I want a hole in my life filled.” She declared, “I want you to be happy. Can’t we make a compromise?” 

“What you’re asking-“ Thomas could hardly fathom it in full, “You don’t want it Mrs. Hughes. Can’t you see that if I was a good person my own parent’s wouldn’t have-“ But Mrs. Hughes put her fingers over his lips again. 

“You are a good person, Thomas Barrow.” She said with immense pride, “I’m sorry that it took me sixteen years to see it. But you didn’t make it easy for me. My little imp.” She gave him a weak smile which he tried to return. It was nice to think of the old times in that moment. To remember causing mischief at the servant’s table only to be told off by Mrs. Hughes or Mr. Carson when he got William upset or spoke too sharply to Mr. Bates. 

“Please.” She begged again, once more tugging at his heart strings so fiercely that it seemed quite plausible he could come apart at the seams, “Please, give me a chance to be happy in every way.” 

“I can’t make you happy Mrs. Hughes,” Though god… he wished he could. 

“You can.” She whispered, stroking his cheeks, “You truly can.” 

But even as Thomas considered the insane (the impossible) he glanced up to see Mr. Carson standing behind Mrs. Hughes shoulder. The man was looking at him with such reverence and respect, just as he’d done the night Lord Grantham had decided Thomas would be the new butler in Carson’s stead. Thomas had never known the joy of an older man approving of him, and it filled a deep chasm within his chest that had been left to rot for so many years. 

“…And you, Mr. Carson?” Thomas could not keep from asking the obvious, the question which burned and beat at his already bruised soul, “What about you? Have you tried to talk her out of this? Have you told her that… that I’m vile and revolting? That I ought to be horsewhipped?” 

Mr. Carson seemed shamed in that moment, recalling his angry words so many years ago on that fateful October night. 

“It may surprise you to hear this.” Mr. Carson began calmly. “But I do not find you to be nearly as much of a bother as you think. Believe it or not, the happiness of my being does not revolve around how well-behaved you’re deciding to be for the day.” 

That was all well and good, but parenthood wasn’t for the hands-off approach, “Just because I’m your son doesn’t mean I will change.” Thomas warned, “It doesn’t mean that I’ll… be better. That I’ll… be… normal-“ 

Mrs. Hughes shushed him again, “Stop with that talk.” She said, voice thickening at the notion that Thomas might not be normal, “You’re as normal as they come.” 

Thomas didn’t know about that but he appreciated the gesture. 

“This is not an attempt to make you ‘better’.” Mr. Carson said, “It is an attempt to make you ours.” 

“But do you want me to be yours?” Thomas could hardly believe it. Carson! Carson of all people whom Thomas had once dreamed was strangling him in the bathtub. “Do you realize what I am? Do you look at me and see me? Or do you just… see…” 

“I see you.” Mr. Carson did not sound proud nor disappointed, “I see a boy who I have watched grow into a man. I see a hall boy, a footman…. a valet.” He smiled grimly at this, “A little imp that needs to get his hand smacked for being naughty. And a very brave soldier willing to go into the lion’s den for those he loves.” 

Thomas swallowed a hot knot building into his throat. 

“Mr. Carson.” Thomas voice was as thick as Mrs. Hughes’ now, “You thought I was a man without a heart. Surely you can find a better son.” 

“Perhaps.” Mr. Carson wore a wry smile that was new to Thomas. It almost brought a human like quality to the butler, the same way their Shakespeare game had. “But I’m old and I don’t have the time to look.” 

This whole time Dr. Kinsey had been watching, his eyes bright with hope. “It’s a big step.” He spoke to Thomas now, “A big decision to believe them. To trust them…” 

Thomas looked from Mrs. Hughes who was staring at him longingly as if he already was her babe. To Mr. Carson who just looked tired and somber from having to work so hard for so long only to gain so little. 

“On one hand-“ Dr. Kinsey mused calmly, voice rather loud in the room, “Imagine what you could gain. A life where you’d have a family that cared for you. A warm and loving home. A room all your own. A place to belong. It’s a bit scary after being alone for so long. After being unlucky. Do you think you can trust them?” 

But Thomas knew for a fact that he could trust Mrs. Hughes. Mr. Carson was a different matter. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust him. It was that he was scared of Mr. Carson, scared of displeasing him. 

“It’s not that simple.” He admitted to Dr. Kinsey. “I’m… I’m scared of displeasing you.” He admitted to Mr. Carson, who pursed his lips. Mrs. Hughes looked over her shoulder at her husband tearfully. 

“Well.” Mr. Carson tried for the tiniest bit of humor, “We’ve survived this long, clearly catastrophe isn’t imminent.” 

“What if you… what if you try to beat me?” Thomas asked. Mr. Carson chuckled, looking down at his shoes. 

“I don’t think I’d be able to catch you.” Mr. Carson admitted. Thomas weighed the options internally. 

He probably could outrun the man, but that wasn’t the point. 

“I have no desire to beat you, Thomas.” Mr. Carson said, “It’s a funny idea in my head, but you’re not a baby anymore. You’re a man. The world will beat you well enough. It is no longer my job to shape you. All I can do now is support you and hope that you will support me.” 

Thomas was staggered but such an articulate response. He was quiet in that moment, reproachful. 

“If you take them on their word, you’ve just been blessed with a wonderful second chance at a family.” Dr. Kinsey said, “If you don’t trust them, the answer is obvious. Who’d want to be adopted by someone they didn’t trust? Particularly when their own birth-parents had been hurtful.” 

Thomas looked down at Moonpie, who was almost squashed between his chest and Mrs. Hughes. The cat seemed quite content to stay in his arms. 

“Do you trust them?” Dr. Kinsey asked. 

How could he not? Thomas nodded, knowing for a fact that if there were anyone in the world that he trusted, it would be the Carson’s. The butler he’d come to follow and the housekeeper he’d learn to hide behind. 

“Well then.” Dr. Kinsey sounded quite pleased, “How wonderful for you. Are you scared to be happy?” 

“Every time I…” Thomas looked down at Moonpie, unable to look Mrs. Hughes in the face, “Every time something good happens to me, it always falls apart. I’m dreading that this will too.” 

“Please.” Mrs. Hughes’ voice was thick, “Just give me a chance… and I promise you I will not let you down.” 

He looked up at her. Her eyes were so brown and so beautiful; they moved him. He had to look down at Moonpie again to keep his cheeks dry. 

“… Can I…” He just had to know, “Can I bring the cat?” 

Mrs. Hughes burst into a gale of disbelieving laughter, amazement spreading across her face. It wasn’t a yes, but it wasn’t a no, and frankly Thomas didn’t have it in him to deny her love anymore when he needed it so sorely. 

Damn it all to hell, he let Moonpie drop to the floor so that she bounced on her feet and skittered away around the couch, moody at being denied. With his arms free, Thomas tried to speak, tried to shrug, tried to reason with Mrs. Hughes but she would not be locked in the iron hold of good behavior anymore. 

She flung her arms around his neck, and buried her face in his shoulder. 

God how he’d missed her. Her smell, her kindness, her smile, her voice. Thomas hid his face in her neck and smelt her perfume, wrapping her up in such a tight embrace that he was certain he’d accidentally crush her. Mrs. Hughes was laughing gayly now, unwilling to let go of him as he straightened up and took her with him. He pulled her right to the tips of her toes, almost off her feet, and swayed a bit as he felt her fingers running through his hair. 

She pulled back, tears streaming down her cheeks. Thomas’ face felt tight and it took him a good minute to realize that he was smiling. 

Joy had been so rare in his life that smiling was an unknown concept to him. But here he was, beaming like an idiot. Mrs. Hughes stroked his cheeks, her fingers trembling as they danced over his tight knit stitches. She seemed amazed with him in that moment, soaking him in like a delicious jam to bread. 

She hugged him again. Thomas cupped the back of her neck in his hand, staring at Mr. Carson behind her. 

He was smiling. Pleased.   
Proud. 

 

Thomas buried his head in Mrs. Hughes’ hair to hide the tears stinging in his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you have any questions or concerns, please feel free to comment.


	23. Bye Bye Blackbird

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas goes on trial.   
> Moonpie goes on a train.   
> Tom goes on a drive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the delay. I have now relocated to Washington. I am exhausted emotionally and mentally. This originally was going to be 25 chapters including an epilogue. It will now be 26 including an epilogue.

Thomas found it incredibly bizarre to imagine that he was now to be Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes’ son. He’d not been someone’s son for a long time; he’d not even been in someone’s family. Suddenly all sorts of questions were starting to pop into his head on an hourly basis that he hadn’t thought to ask at the time of the initial question. 

Was he going to have to change his name? Where would he live? How would he go about telling his coworkers and the family? Would he even have to tell them? Was this whole affair even legal? 

Then again, Thomas was hardly the standard by which legality was to be kept. 

Another pressing question, and the one that he had to confess caused him the most grief, was the thought of his own biological family and what should ever happen if they were to find out. 

His mother was dead, he knew that and had made peace with it. He felt compelled that her spirit would want him to be in a happier situation, and so did not think on her often. His father, however, was a different matter. He was alive, and suddenly Thomas found himself frightened of the prospect of Carson and his father ever running into one another. Would his father be irate that Thomas had done something so outlandish as to take on another name and family? Or would he be glad to have Thomas washed of his hands? 

Thomas just didn’t know, and that uncertainty ate at him till there was an ugly hole inside of him. 

Even if he didn’t have a moral battle being waged in his heart, his mind was filling up with anxiety once again. In all his calm and quiet at hiding in Dr. Kinsey’s residence, he completely forgot that there were two rather important obstacles to his total and absolute freedom. 

Mostly a payment of a ￡50 fine and a private trial underneath Judge Hewart. 

Mr. Carson called Judge Hewart’s office from Dr. Kinsey’s office phone, and scheduled for Thomas’ hearing to be in two days time at eleven in the morning. The Carson’s took Thomas to Leeds on a train straight from Elephant and Cross. Dr. Kinsey’s maid Alice even maid them sandwiches, but Thomas found it difficult to eat his fill as he toyed with Lt. Colonel Fletcher’s plaid scarf. Mrs. Hughes had thought ahead, packing a valise with a few of his clothes inside lest he be found on her initial errand. Thomas felt like a normal man in his brown suit, his purple tie popping against the soft muted colors. Just to be safe, he kept the scarf about his neck and timidly ate at a turkey and munster cheese sandwich. Across from him on the train seat, Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes debated the virtues of Moonpie, the Persian. 

Mr. Carson thought her superfluous.   
Mrs. Hughes thought her charming. 

There was no way that the cat could come back to the abbey with Tiaa wreaking havoc on the first floor. If she came home with Thomas, she would have to stay at the Carson’s cottage for the sanity and safety of all involved. Mr. Carson did not enjoy the idea of a ‘cotton ball’ taking over his house, while Mrs. Hughes considered her a house warming gift. 

Their voting was at a tie, so the deciding angle came to Thomas.   
No prizes given for guessing which side his favor turned to. 

The train stopped around ten, and they disembarked onto a parked platform to hail a taxi cab into the center of town. Leeds was no where near as large as London, but it was bigger than York and difficult to traverse on foot if you were in a pinch for time. Puttering along, Mrs. Hughes and Thomas took up one side of the carriage while Mr. Carson grumbled opposite them, arms folded over his chest at the idea of sharing his living space with a Persian. 

“Is the cat such a necessity?” Mr. Carson asked Thomas. 

Thomas was still struggling to understand why it was that Carson was willing to share a house with him, never mind a Persian cat. 

“Dr. Kinsey doesn’t want her.” Thomas mumbled, unsure of what else to say. He found it difficult to look Mr. Carson in the eye. 

“And I should wonder why when it’s such a gentle and polite animal.” Mr. Carson sneered. 

“It’ll be nice to have a cat in the house!” Mrs. Hughes protested, “It’ll help with mice and keep us company!” 

“I doubt that cat has ever caught a mouse in its life.” Mr. Carson was probably right; Moonpie wouldn’t even step outside. “It’s more pampered than a member of the family. “ 

“Heavens.” Mrs. Hughes flashed him a coy smile, “Did you just insist the family are pampered?” 

“… It’s their right to be so.” Mr. Carson shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Mrs. Hughes glanced at Thomas, that coy smile still in place on his face. 

The Leeds County Courthouse was a large and illustrious building, flanked with white washed brick and three large spires centered around two rotating outer staircases. Motorcars were parked all along out front where a great swath of red tinted pavement gave way to finely trimmed shrubs deprived of their spring blooms. Many men were here, some talking, some waiting, most just walking… and nearly all of them were police officers. 

Thomas ducked his head, his breathing becoming irregular as he tugged the scarf to his lips. 

“Oh god-“ He muttered. Mrs. Hughes touches his thigh, concerned. “Police.” 

“They’ve nothing to bother you over.” Mrs. Hughes urged as Mr. Carson paid their taxi driver. But how could Thomas be sure when any of them might be Barsette or one of his lot? 

What if they’d heard he was coming today?   
What if they were expecting him?   
What if they were waiting to-

“I-“ Thomas stuttered, looking back out at the throng of milling police officers and lawyers, “I have to do something… I … I need to walk ahead of you.” 

“Why?” Mrs. Hughes asked, perturbed. Mr. Carson opened the door to the taxi cab, and Thomas quickly jerked his scarf up over his mouth to hide the scars. They stepped out onto the pavement, and the taxi cab abandoned them so that suddenly Thomas felt very small and powerless. He cowered, feeling a terrible sweat come on even though it was hardly warm temperature wise. He trembled, a slight choking sensation coming at his throat so that he had to feel at his neck underneath his scarf for a moment. 

“Thomas?” Mrs. Hughes very gently took him by the upper arm, trying to get some sense back into him. 

“What’s come over you?” Mr. Carson asked. He was shocked to find Thomas so suddenly changed, even as police officers milled all over the area. “Why are you shaking?” 

“I have to walk ahead of you.” Thomas said, keeping his eyes on the road at his feet, “So that… So that in case I’m attacked-“ 

“What nonsense.” Mr. Carson would hear none of it. He took Thomas by one arm, Mrs. Hughes to the other, so that suddenly they were frog marching him up the red washed concrete towards the outer stairs. “No one is going to attack you.” 

Thomas kept his head down, unable to look up and face the policemen swarming him. None of them were paying attention; men were passing left and right on their way to their destinations. 

Thomas prayed that Barsette wouldn’t find him; that Barsette wouldn’t be among them. But how could he know-? 

Yet even as Thomas contemplated pulling away and running as fast as he could back to the streets, Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes led him inside the Leed County Courthouse and up a large set of marble stairs. A massive statue of a lion on its hind legs lay inside the building foyer, around which multiple wings could be taken to different sects of legal standing. 

Clearly their wing lay upstairs. 

At the very top of the spiraling marble stairs lay a large platform beyond which fine wooden walls gave way to carved glass doors. A secretary was placed here, behind a desk laden with papers and stamps. She spotted Mr. Carson coming up the stairs and gently forced her glasses higher up on her nose.

“May I help you?” She asked, rising up from her seat. Mrs. Hughes was still holding Thomas rather intently by the upper arm. 

“A Mr. Thomas Barrow to see Judge Hewart.” Mr. Carson said, “We have an appointment for eleven o’clock.” 

The secretary flipped through her many leather bindings, clearly having to keep schedules for several men. She found the page she was looking for, and tapped the offending line with a manicured finger before stepping out around her desk and leading them through a large glass door. 

“This way.” She said. They entered a rather long hallway, between which doors went off into individual offices for judges. Each had a name on a golden plate in front of their door. Thomas noted them as they passed: 

_Judge Horace Walpole_  
_Judge Lawrence Bailey_  
_Judge Joseph Hunton_

“He’s a very nice man,” Mrs. Hughes whispered in his ear, clearly trying to sooth him as they walked. Thomas realized his fingers were trembling, “He just has to finish up some legal papers, nothing more. No one is taking you back to Wakefield. You’re free.” 

“For a price.” Thomas mumbled, or did she forget he still had to pay fifty pounds? 

“Shh.” She petted his arm. 

They paused before an ornate glass and wooden door, the top of which bore a golden plate: _Judge Gordon Hewart_. 

Thomas’ heart skipped a wild beat in his chest as the secretary knocked swiftly upon the door and opened it to reveal a spacious and lavish office. A rather large man with a square jaw and bulbous nose was behind an enormous desk, slowly shuffling through legal papers with a pipe clutched between his teeth. He paused, glancing up and setting down his papers. 

“Yes?” Judge Hewart grumbled. 

“A Mr. Thomas Barrow to see you, your honor.” The secretary said, allowing Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes to enter the room with Thomas bringing up an unwilling rear. She shut the door and suddenly Thomas was encaged with a lion sans his mane. 

Judge Hewart looked rather grouchy as he put out his pipe and shoved it into a leather holder in the side of his desk. 

“So, there you are!” Judge Hewart said a rather loud and commanding voice, “I wondered where you’d run off too! Bit of rabbit in you?” 

“We apologize for the delay, Judge Hewart” Mrs. Hughes began graciously. Behind her shoulder Thomas hid like a child. “There were communication problems-“ 

“Communic-“ Judge Hewart could not even finish the word he was so annoyed; he spoke to Thomas right over Mrs. Hughes shoulder, side stepping her input, “Do you know how many strings I had to pull for you?” 

Thomas shook his head, still hiding behind Mrs. Hughes and his scarf in turn. 

Judge Hewart sighed, rubbing his brow with pudgy fingers. He smacked his hand upon his desk, causing Thomas to jump. 

“Take off your damn coat and sit down.” Judge Hewart gestured to the two guest chairs before his desk. Mrs. Hughes shed her coat; Mr. Carson took it from her and hung it up on a hatstand beside his own. Thomas gave over his coat but clung onto his scarf, holding it almost like a security blanket at this point. 

“Take off the scarf.” Judge Hewart commanded, Mr. Carson took it from his sternly so that Thomas had to hide his scarred lips behind a hand as he took a seat before Judge Hewart. Mrs. Hughes sat next to him with Mr. Carson standing behind his chair so that Thomas was suddenly surrounded by adults demanding answers. 

“Lower your hand.” Judge Hewart said. Nervous, Thomas did so. Judge Hewart paused, movements stilling as he took into notice Thomas’ scarred disposition. 

“What is that?” Judge Hewart gestured to Thomas’ lips with a large hand. Thomas jumped, “Oh for gods sake.” Judge Hewart rolled his eyes, “Who did that to you?” 

Thomas shook his head, petrified of the idea of Judge Hewart finding out it was Barsette. What if he went after Barsette and Barsette found out it was Thomas who had squealed? The Carson’s could be in grave danger- Tom! 

Thomas winced at the thought of the man he so loved under the knife. Judge Hewart seemed to sense cowardice was keeping him silent. 

“He’s a little nervous, your honor.” Mrs. Hughes murmured. “He won’t tell anyone who attacked him. Perhaps we should just press on?” 

Judge Hewart narrowed his eyes, drumming his fat fingers upon his desk. He sighed, scooting back a bit in his large leather chair to take up an enormous brown paper file which he flipped through at random till he came to the back pages. He took out a fine ink pen from a black marble stand, shaking it a bit so that it could flow freely before lacing his hands over his rotund belly to glare at Thomas. 

“Mr. Barrow, my name is Judge Gordon Hewart.” Judge Hewart introduced himself. “I am the reason you were freed on the 16th instead of three years from now, and I would appreciate a little gratitude.” 

Thomas had do enough groveling in his life to realize the command. He bowed his head at once, spewing forth a stream of pleasantries: “Thank you, your honor. Truly, you are- incredibly merciful and kind. I… I cannot convey to you how much your generosity has saved me-“ 

“Yes, yes, yes.” Judge Hewart had clearly heard it all before and was unimpressed. He re-loaded his pipe with snuff, striking it up with a match to blow in it till a cloud of smoke circle his round head. “But you’re not finished with me yet. Your trial is private but it’s still a trial and the charges against you are clear.” He tapped the brown paper file beneath him, glaring dully at Thomas, “You admitted to your guilt in the crime of attempted self murder during initial questioning. Do you hold to that admittance now? That you willingly attempted to take your life last July?” 

There could be no denying the truth, not when there were scars all up and down Thomas’ under arms. “…Yes, your honor.” He murmured. 

“Do you realize that you are damning your eventual salvation?” Judge Hewart snapped, thumping a fist upon the desk. Thomas nodded, unsure of what else to do. No one had talked to him about his salvation since he’d been a child attending Sunday school. “You must consider that life is a gift from your creator! What do you have to say for yourself, in your selfishness? In your gluttony for good fortune?” 

“I…” Thomas stuttered, unsure of what to say. “… I’m… sorry?” Was that the proper term? 

“What you are is foolish!” Judge Hewart corrected. Thomas pursed his lips, cheeks flushing bright red in embarrassment. How he hated being talked to about this. He felt like a child being reprimanded for sneaking a sweet. He’d been coddled by Dr. Kinsey so long that he’d forgotten most men did not approve of his suicidal methods. “Consider your luck! You have shoes on your feet, clothes on your back- do you plan on eating later today?” He asked. 

Thomas nodded, supposing that eventually he would get dinner either from Dr. Kinsey’s house or with the Carsons. “Food in your belly!” Judge Hewart continued on, “A bed to sleep in tonight, and people who obviously care about your welfare.” He gestured to the Carsons. 

Mrs. Hughes patted Thomas’ hand tenderly from the chair next to him. 

“Consider how unlucky you could be!” Judge Hewart continued on, “Destitute, starving, alone, freezing out there with nothing-!” He jerked a fat thumb a blinded window beyond which just the tiniest bits of snow were daring to fall, “Do you want to throw all that way over something as meager as…” Judge Hewart paused, glancing at the file on his desk, “Job troubles?” 

Thomas just wanted this god awful conversation to be over. “No sir.” He mumbled ashamedly to his lap. 

Judge Hewart puffed on his pipe, eyes narrowed. 

“I’ve decided I’m going to keep an eye on you, Barrow.” He declared, unimpressed, “You’ve a touch of rabbit in you, I can see it. For the next…” He paused, glancing at the file again to flip through some of the earlier pages, “Five years!” He cried out. 

Thomas heart leapt to his throat-

“I’m going to check the Downton police headquarters every month to see if your name is on the rosters.” Judge Hewart said. Thomas took a shuddering breath, his heart still pounding from the unnecessary terror Judge Hewart’s words had invoked, “If I see your name for any reason, I’m yanking you into York County Prison to finish off your initial sentence of three years. Am I understood?” 

“Yes sir.” Thomas squeaked, with a tone that might have been more suitable to a pre-pubescent girl. He coughed, trying to regain control of himself. 

“I’m warning you.” Judge Hewart pointed a fat finger at Thomas’ sweating face, “I’ve shown you great mercy. Do not disappoint me.” 

Thomas nodded at once. Judge Hewart scribbled something onto the brown paper file beneath him, reaching over to grab a legal stamp which he all but slammed onto the paper to imprint it with fine scarlet ink. 

Judge Hewart expelled a massive amount of smoke from his mouth and nose, smacking his pipe with a hard ‘thunk’ onto a marble plate to re-load it with more snuff. He struck up another match, starting his next round. 

“Then there’s the matter of the fine.” Judge Hewart said. 

“Yes sir, I-“ Thomas flustered, his anxiety picking up at the thought of money to be spent. Mr. Carson shuffled a bit in his seat, pulling out a sturdy envelope to pass it over to Judge Hewart who collected it with a squeak and strain of his chair to open it with a fine silver letter opener. “I have thirty in my savings that I can put down immediately.” Judge Hewart didn’t seem to be listening to him, instead rifling through the letter contents with the breadth of his thumb as if counting sheets, “I’ll ask my employer, the Earl of Grantham, for a lump sum that can be taken out of my annual salary if he allows my position back-“ 

“Look, I don’t know what you’re blathering about because there’s fifty pounds in my hand.” Judge Hewart cut across, waving Mr. Carson’s envelope. 

A jolt of anxiety flashed through Thomas’ system; uncaring for manners he reached out and snatched the envelop from Judge Hewart, opening it to pull out (sure enough) fifty crisp English pounds. Where the hell had this money come from!? 

“What?!” Thomas stuttered, looking first to Mr. Carson then Mrs. Hughes, “Where did this money come from? Who gave this to you?” 

“It came from several people if you must know.” Mr. Carson said, taking back the envelop and handing it to Judge Hewart once more who irritably snatched it back to pull out a receipt bill so that he might write a stub for the amount. 

“No, no-“ Thomas felt absolutely furious at this point. He rose out of his chair, pacing irritably. Had he not expressly told Mr. Murray that no one but he was to pay the fine? Where had that conversation gone? Out the window? Incredible how when he talked no one listened. “That’s not right. It needs to be my money!” 

“Well, you were supposed to have it on you today when you entered my office.” Judge Hewart snapped. “Do you have your money with you?” 

“I…No.” Thomas paused at the back of his chair. Mrs. Hughes jerked her head, urging him to sit again. Thomas glanced from her to Judge Hewart who was still sneering. 

“Either I accept this payment in full today, or I have you arrested where you stand for bail fraud.” Judge Hewart smacked his pipe again. 

Thomas blinked, his heart rate picking up. Arrest meant Wakefield- Wakefield meant Barsette- Barsette meant—! 

Thomas was squarely defeated. He slowly retook his seat. 

“Mhmm.” Judge Hewart seemed to have realized that the battle was won. He returned to his receipt booklet, writing out Mr. Carson a slip to tear it off and pass it over. Mr. Carson pocketed it as Judge Hewart locked the sum of Thomas’ bail into a drawer beneath his desk. “This is a legal document authorizing your full and total release from prison on the grounds that should you commit the act of self-murder again during the next five years you will serve your full sentence with no chance of bail. Am I clear?” Judge Hewart asked, swiveling around a rather large sheet of paper full of dark print the size of a pin head. Thomas grimaced, wishing he could read it all, but Judge Hewart was shoving a pen in his hand and Mr. Carson was urging him to sign his name. 

He did so, and Judge Hewart took the document back to sign it himself, seal it with a hard smack of his red stamp, dust it with sealing powder, and envelop it in a thick white casing that would surely hold fast through time. 

He put it inside Thomas’ file, and closed the entire thing. 

“There.” Judge Hewart said, “We’re done.” 

“Before we leave today,” Mr. Carson cut across before Judge Hewart could ring for his secretary, “I have another matter I wish to know your instruction on.” 

“Yes?” Judge Hewart asked, slightly curious. 

“Adoption.” Mr. Carson said.   
Thomas’ heart leapt in his chest. He suddenly found himself too embarrassed to look Mr. Carson in the face and bowed his head to instead stare at his shoes. They needed to be polished. 

“Ah.” Judge Hewart was unconcerned, “Well you’ll find the law is rather gray in that area. We’ve some upcoming legislation but that won’t be available for review until late June at least. Who is the child you’re looking to adopt? A ward of the state?” 

“Well that’s just it.” Mr. Carson carried on, “It’s not a child per-say. It’s him.” He looked to Thomas. Thomas felt an incredible heat rushing into his cheeks as Judge Hewart remained oddly silent. 

“Him.” Judge Hewart repeated just to make sure. 

“Correct.” 

“Why are you trying to adopt him?” Judge Hewart gestured between Carson and Thomas, baffled. It was Mrs. Hughes who spoke, though. 

“We want to be his guardians,” Mrs. Hughes said, “So that we can be in charge of his mental health… We’re very fond of him.” She reached out and gently took hold of Thomas’ hand upon his thigh. Thomas wondered if she could feel his pulse jumping. 

“I see.” Judge Hewart coughed, still slightly confused. “And where are your actual parents?” 

Thomas pursed his lips, still staring down at his shoes. 

“… My mother is dead.” Thomas said. “I don’t know where my father is.” 

“Why not?” Judge Hewart asked. 

“… I was disowned at the age of fourteen.” Thomas ground out. He clenched his hands upon his thighs realizing only too late that Mrs. Hughes could feel the tension coiling within him. She gently stroked his knuckles. 

“Why?” 

Thomas looked up and met Judge Hewart’s eyes, his lips pursed, “Guess.” Was all he said. 

Judge Hewart shrugged, smacking his pipe upon his marble plate repeatedly to knock loose any lingering burnt snuff. 

“Alright, well, you’ll have to make enquiries with your local jurisdiction.” Judge Hewart said. “Technically Leeds controls most of the small towns like Downton and Thirsk but you might be better off getting a lawyer in York like Murray.” Judge Hewart relaxed in his chair so that it squeaked ominously, “Send him a letter, he’ll get things in motion.” 

“Do you say we have good chances?” Mrs. Hughes asked hopefully. Thomas glanced at her to see that her brown eyes were shining. It made his throat burn with emotion. 

“Adoption isn’t well regulated right now.” Judge Hewart shrugged, “I say you have as good a chance as any.” He paused, pointing his pipe like a baton at Thomas, “Another blessing to count.” 

 

 

They returned to Dr. Kinsey’s after their visit with Judge Hewart, with the train pulling into Elephant and Cross around three. The whole way back, Thomas hardly spoke. He was rattled, and could not deny it. 

His fear was that Tom had paid the money; that Tom knew Thomas was hiding from him and wanted to be shot of him. Maybe he’d given it over as a sort of ‘mercy end’. But did Tom even have fifty pounds to spare like that? And if he had why waste it on Thomas who didn’t even have the balls to come home like a man. 

Part of him knew that he shouldn’t have hidden.   
Part of him wished Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes hadn’t found him in the first place.   
Part of him… longed. For what he could not say. Stability, quiet, peace…?   
Something like that. 

“Well..” Mrs. Hughes sighed, taking tea with Mr. Carson while Dr. Kinsey sat across from them. “I suppose that could have gone much worse.” 

Moonpie sat upon Thomas’ lap, purring like a motor. Normally this would content him but now he just felt stagnant and bitter. Mr. Carson seemed content, taking his tea silently on his left while Mrs. Hughes sipped her own on his right. Dr. Kinsey sat across from them eager to hear all their news. 

Mr. Carson had done most of the talking. 

As the silence stretched, Thomas found himself growing angrier.   
Who had payed? He wanted to know. 

“Why did you pay that money?” Thomas asked, staring at his untouched cup of tea. Mrs. Hughes had even gone to the trouble of adding honey and lemon but it was untouched upon the coffee table. Mr. Carson paused mid sip, “I wanted to pay that money. I told Mr Murray-“ 

“Well you didn’t have the money on you, did you.” Mr. Carson sat down his cup of tea, “You heard Judge Hewart-“ 

“Who put in what?” Thomas asked, still refusing to look at either Mr. Carson or Mrs. Hughes. Across from him on the couch, Dr. Kinsey seemed most intrigued that Thomas was about to start an argument for something that could be considered a favor. “I have to know who to pay back.” 

Mr. Carson didn’t seem too pleased about that, but he answered all the same with a clipped technical tone, “Both I and his Lordship put in twenty. Mr. Branson put in ten.” 

So it seemed Tom had put in for the payment. Thomas balled his fists upon his lap so that Moonpie meowed plaintively; clearly she didn’t like it when he stopped rubbing her. 

“I feel you should also know that on the day you left for London, Mr. Branson searched Wakefield county on foot, calling for you through the night.” Mr. Carson added. 

Thomas looked away, momentarily having to touch a fist to his lips to keep from saying something awful. Something emotional. 

He was suddenly given a terrible vivid image of Tom, desperately calling for Thomas and running through the dark. He’d trip and stumble. He’d be frightened. He’d come home empty handed and weep for the inhumanity of it all. First to lose a lover to eclampsia… then to lose another lover to what? 

Cowardice? 

“He’s been searching desperately for you.” Mrs. Hughes admitted, “When he was told about your attack, he tried to go back to Wakefield and start a riot with a fishing knife. Mr. Talbot and Mr. Bates saw him off and kept him from making a horrible mistake, but his rage was like a wild horse.” 

Thomas closed his eyes, picturing it. 

Tom running like mad through the dirty cobblestone courtyards of Wakefield, leaping over obstacles and knocking down guards in pursuit of Barsette. 

The bastard wouldn’t even stand a chance. Tom would devour him whole with his rage. 

“He misses you so.” Mrs. Hughes murmured. “He’s been horribly glum without you. Don’t you want to see him again?” 

“You need to return home.” Mr. Carson said, alluding to nothing in regards to Tom or the love they shared. “You cannot impose on Dr. Kinsey any longer.” 

Dr. Kinsey smiled, shrugging as he munched on a lemon cream biscuit. “I’m happy to receive you, Thomas, but I think you’ll be much happier back with Tom.” 

“You’ll have Dr. Clarkson to see you in the village.” Mrs. Hughes offered, “And you can stay at the house until you’re ready to return to the abbey.” 

“I can’t go back.” Thomas said, bitter. He held Moonpie tightly to his chest. “I cannot serve in the dining room like this, I cannot be the butler-“ 

“That is not your decision to make.” Mr. Carson warned him, “It is his Lordship’s!”   
God forbid Thomas deny his Lordship the pleasure of firing him one more time. 

“Do you honestly think his lordship would want me?” Thomas asked, turning to glare at Mr. Carson; my god the similarities were hysterical. They could be arguing around the servant’s table instead. “With my face like a pumpkin? I saw footmen turned down for blemishes!” 

“You are a not a footman.” Mr. Carson reminded him, “And to the question of your status, you are under his Lordship’s employment and therefore must look to him for your answer! I cannot give it to you and you cannot supply it yourself.” 

Thomas let out an irritated huff, looking away. Mrs. Hughes patted his arm again, timidly stroking Moonpie’s luxurious lilac coat. 

“Let’s go home today.” Mrs. Hughes urged, “And tomorrow, Mr. Carson can tell his lordship you’re back and-“ 

“And Tom will be on the doorstep in half an hour.” Thomas muttered, imagining what a god awful reunion that would be. No doubt Tom would gut him down for size, for being so awful through all of this. 

“Would you be so unhappy to see him?” Mrs. Hughes asked softly. Thomas shook his head. 

“I have no desire to be drug through the mud.” Thomas whispered. 

“Drug through the-“ Dr. Kinsey could not even complete the sentence, “I can hardly imagine Tom dragging you anywhere save up a church aisle. It would seem you’re determined to be alone, Thomas. One would wonder if you truly enjoy being outcasted.” 

“Oh yes,” Thomas sneered, unable to control his sharp reflexes at being prodded ungenerously, “I take great delight in having my life ripped to shreds.” 

“I think it’s comfortable to you.” Dr. Kinsey said, as easy as you please. Thomas’ face burned with an intense embarrassment and rage, “It’s much easier to be the victim than to be the conquerer. Anyone can tell you that.” 

Thomas couldn’t speak for a moment, absolutely filled with a heat that numbed his tongue and made him stutter. He was suddenly remembering how after outing Gwen to an irritable luncheon crowd Baxter had hissed in his ear that he was his own worst enemy. 

He didn’t want to believe it even with the evidence piling off. 

“Well put yourself in my shoes, Doctor.” Thomas snapped, “What if you had been tossed about as I have? What if your family abused you and spat you out- what if you were homeless for months, jobless for the next, and the only work you could find was scrubbing iron pots as a hall boy. What if you kept working, kept rising, but couldn’t find a friend because you didn’t like being content with grudge work. What if you got to the top, found something you finally wanted, and had everything seized away from you for the same reason that your family spat you out in the first place. Would you be eager to jump on board the next boat?!” 

By the end of it Thomas was shouting.   
Dr. Kinsey shifted almost imperceptibly in his chair, eyes as calm as ever as he surveyed Thomas shaking upon his couch. Mrs. Hughes was flabbergasted, Mr. Carson just seemed disappointed. 

“Maybe you’re brave than I am.” Dr. Kinsey offered, “At least I thought you to be—“ 

“Oh go fuck yourself.” 

It slipped out of his mouth, barbing the air, and Thomas knew at once that he’d gone too far. He touch a hand to his mouth but there was no point. He’d made a mistake and cursed a kind friend- someone who had shown him nothing but generosity. 

“Thomas!” Mrs. Hughes balked.   
Would she even want him for a son now, when she could see what he was capable of? 

“I beg your pardon?” Mr. Carson demanded, agog. 

Spurned, Thomas looked away, allowing Moonpie to drop onto the floor so that she could brush against the legs of the coffee table. Her meowing went unnoticed as the silence just grew and grew. 

“… Why do you feel the need to do that?” Dr. Kinsey asked, hardly sounding hurt or acting angry; he was as calm as ever. 

It made an ugly sensation spread out through Thomas’ body, like he was about to come under the influence of a terrible cold. He wondered if he might vomit as he looked away. 

“Do you want to make me hurt?” Dr. Kinsey asked softly, “Because you’re hurting? That’s not the way to treat a friend, Thomas.” 

A bubble of acid came up his throat. Thomas rose up from the couch without another word, stepping away from his spoiled tea party to head out into the hallway and up the stairs to the guest bedroom on the second floor. There he lay, wondering if he might be ill, horribly better at being shown for a hard-case in front of his prospective new parents. 

The thought of losing Mrs. Hughes’ love over a flash of his uncontrollable mouth made him want to weep. He kept it in though, till his back molars clenched and his tongue tasted bile. His heart pounded in his chest; he took deep steadying breathes though his nose, desperate to stave off an anxiety attack. 

Below in the tea room, Mrs. Hughes scrambled to take control of the murdered conversation. 

“I’m terrible sorry.” She said to Dr. Kinsey, who was smiling bitterly from his chair while Moonpie trotted out of the room meowing for Thomas. 

“It’s quite alright.” Dr. Kinsey said, taking a sip of his tea, “I hardly take it to heart. Thomas merely needs to acknowledge his unhealthy behavior patterns so that he can learn to stop acting on them. He has a way of allowing his mouth to get ahead of him… as his adopted parents you’ll have to learn to help him curb that.” 

Mrs. Hughes pursed her lips, looking up at the ceiling. 

 

 

Thomas lay still and quiet, pretending to be asleep for what was surely more than half an hour. When he finally heard feet outside of his door, he felt horribly unwell and could swear his feet and face were going numb. 

When the door opened, it was Mrs. Hughes letting in Moonpie who leapt up on the bed to settle in behind him. She walked around the edge of the bed, setting herself down on the edge while Thomas kept his eyes securely upon his bedside table. 

She reached out, touching a lock of whispy hair that had come un-glued from his pomade hold. 

“Come down stairs and apologize.” She said. 

Thomas felt frozen upon the bed, glued to the covers with sweat and fear. 

“I don’t feel good.” He mumbled. 

“All the same.” She tried to say, but paused as she reached out and touched his forehead. “…You’re dripping in sweat.” 

“I don’t feel good.” Thomas said again. 

Mrs. Hughes seemed to know what to do, instinctively rising from the bed and leaving the room only to enter a moment later with her canvas handbag. She rifled through it, contents clinking, till she found what she wanted and withdrew it. It was a brown bottle and a frayed white cloth. She unscrewed the lid, dampened the cloth, and recapped the bottle to hide it once more in her purse. 

“Here now." She urged. “Sit up. That’s a boy-“ 

Thomas did as he was bade; he could swear bees were ringing in his ears and shuddered as Mrs. Hughes pressed the cloth to his mouth. 

“Thomas.” She whispered as he breathed in an oddly herbal scent. Almost immediately he felt his muscles begin to relax, “You have to learn to control your mouth.” 

“I’m sorry.” Thomas felt horribly ashamed, his ears still ringing with an odd buzzing sound even as the feeling slowly came back to his feet and face. 

“I don’t need an apology.” Mrs. Hughes reminded him. 

Thomas had to take a moment to come back to his senses. He could remember this medicine after having a horrible experience with the Carson’s bathroom; he’d not seen it since before Wakefield. The result of a month of sobriety was that Thomas was absolutely gobsmacked by the after shocks of the drug, and had to lay down in bed while Mrs. Hughes and Mr. Carson arranged for them to take the night train back to Downton. He felt almost punch drunk, unable to worry about Dr. Kinsey or his feelings until later that afternoon when Mrs. Hughes came to collect him so that they could catch their train. 

She was not alone. Dr. Kinsey came with her bearing a carved wooden crate with a red leather handle. 

Mrs. Hughes made him sit up, and Thomas groaned, rubbing his eyes blearily as Dr. Kinsey set the crate down on the floor. Moonpie made a noise in the back of her throat, clearly knowing the reason for the season. 

“Are we feeling any calmer?” Dr. Kinsey asked, coming around the side of the bed to turn on the beside lamp. Thomas winced, eyes stinging till he came to. He yawned, nodding slowly as Mrs. Hughes fetched his shoes and bade him to lace them back on. Dr. Kinsey gently took Thomas’ pulse behind his ear, his fingers smooth and cool. He seemed content with what he found. 

“I heard bees.” Thomas mumbled. 

“You got a little too excited.” Dr. Kinsey declared, “But I don’t want you getting too reliant on that medicine, Thomas. It’ll weaken your lungs.” 

Thomas didn’t know what to say at first, watching as Dr. Kinsey opened the wooden crate by the leather clasps. Moonpie made another noise, coming around Thomas’ back to sit on his lap instead. 

Mrs. Hughes watched the pair of them, forcing Thomas to stand so that she might make the bed. Moonpie watched as Dr. Kinsey set the crate upon a trunk at the foot of the bed, showing its inside to be lined in that same leather coating. 

“I bought this when my mother passed away.” Dr. Kinsey explained, “It was her cat, after all. She named it ‘Moonpie’ after a treat she’d tasted from New Orleans in America.” Dr. Kinsey smiled to himself, lost in the memory, “It was a marshmallow wrapped in a cookie and dipped in chocolate. Nutrition free!” He joked. 

“Dear god.” Mrs. Hughes looked disgusted, “I can’t imagine I’d enjoy that.” 

But humor soon faded away to be replaced by the bleak silent reminder that Dr. Kinsey and Thomas had left their relationship hinged on an argument and an ugly word. 

Thomas fingered his shoelaces, noting how frayed they were at the edges. He could stand to replace them before summer rolled around. “I’m not a coward.” 

Dr. Kinsey smiled, “You make it sound like it’s a crime to be cowardly.” 

But Thomas had had enough of the word ‘crime’ and all that it implied, particularly when he was now petrified of policemen, “It’s not ideal.” 

And that was putting it mildly. 

“It’s a human attribute.” Dr. Kinsey fingered the leather handle again; Thomas noted that there was a long thin scar on the inside of his left ring finger and wondered what it was from, “You’d hardly be alone in it. Brave men are often prone to moments of slight cowardice.” He smiled with wane humor. It seemed he was growing tired with the late hour. 

He gently fingered that mysterious scar on his ring finger, tilting his head to the side, “I’m a coward.” 

“You’re quick to confess.” No need for torture where Robert Kinsey was concerned. He’d tell you flat out what his flaws were. 

Dr. Kinsey’s smile dropped. He observed Thomas for a moment, watching how Moonpie growled agitatedly at the cage and Mrs. Hughes stood at his shoulder. He seemed to be preparing himself for the final reveal, as if judging how much he could trust Thomas’ friendship. 

He seemed to find him worthy. 

“Every Sunday for the past three years, April Olgate- my ex-fiancé- has written me a letter after she goes to church. She tells me she loves me, that she’s sorry, that she wants to be with me again; to be my wife.” 

Dr. Kinsey pursed his lips, “I’ve never answered her.” He finally concluded, “I’ve never even dared to read the letters. My maid Alice reads them for me. I thought at first, two years ago, that she would eventually give up and find another suitor. But she hasn’t.” Dr. Kinsey moved away to stand by the bedroom window, looking out at the street below. “She’s a true beauty, you know. She could have another man if she wanted to.” 

“But she doesn’t want to.” Thomas said. 

Dr. Kinsey bowed his head, “I hide from April for the same reasons that you hide from Tom. I don’t think any less of you for it- how could I without damning myself? Maybe I just want you to be happier than I am.” 

Thomas thought of this April Olgate, and wondered what she was like in person. He wondered if Kinsey would ever go to her, or at least respond to her letters. He wondered if one day April would simply stop writing to him, and what an utter shame that would be. What a waste. 

“Go home to Tom.” 

“If I do, will you write back to April?” 

“Probably not,” Dr. Kinsey was amused at his bargain, “but as I’ve said before, you’re braver than I am.” 

Thomas suddenly felt incredibly guilty for cursing at Dr. Kinsey. Of all people, this man deserved nothing but praise and kindness. He looked down at his shoes, toeing at the floor while Mrs. Hughes stared him down and Dr. Kinsey waited for his response. 

“I’m sorry I hurt your feelings.” Thomas said, well aware that his throat was constricting and his tone was dropping, “You are as dear a friend to me as any I know, and I thank you for saving my life and taking me in. If it weren’t for you I would have died.” 

Dr. Kinsey shrugged, “I doubt that.” He sounded quite sincere, “But hopefully I helped to remind you of a few things. That’s really all I do. You’re very intelligent Thomas,” Thomas flushed at the compliment, “but that powerful little brain of yours likes to get ahead of itself. Don’t outsmart your common sense.” 

It seemed as good advice as any; Thomas suddenly wondered at the fact that while Dr. Kinsey was excellent at giving good advice he certainly wasn’t good at taking it. Maybe Dr. Kinsey needed a friend just as much as Thomas. “where does Ms. Olgate live?” Thomas wondered. But at this Dr. Kinsey burst out laughing, wagging his finger in Thomas’ face. 

“Oh no.” He chortled, “I’m not telling you that easily. I know you. You’ll write to her.” 

Damn he was clever. 

“Alas, caught.” Thomas admitted. Dr. Kinsey smiled like a dope till the corners of his eyes crinkled. 

“Don’t worry about me, Thomas.” Dr. Kinsey said softly. “I’m alone by my own choice. But you don’t need to be… and that’s the difference between the two of us.” 

“I hate to interrupt.” Mrs. Hughes was very soft in tone, smiling fondly at Thomas as if he’d done her proud, “But our train will soon arrive if we don’t get to the station.” 

Thomas nodded, and gently made to place Moonpie in her carrier. She yowled, pawing frantically at the upper clasps of the hood in a desperate bid for freedom. Mrs. Hughes quickly closed the lid atop Moonpie’s angry squashed face, effectively sealing her in so that Thomas could strap down the leather clasps. She was growling, her tail flicking behind her so that a light lilac wisp of fluff could tickle the slats of the cage. 

“Oh, you’ll live.” Dr. Kinsey said, patting the top of the cage fondly. Moonpie hissed at him, and Dr. Kinsey jerked his hand back at once. “Jesus.” 

Thomas picked up the cage, slightly weighed down on one side. He observed Dr. Kinsey again, everything from his soft brown eyes to his curly brown hair. When would he see this man again? 

“Forgive me.” Thomas said again, “for insulting you.” 

Dr. Kinsey seemed to understand what he needed to hear, “You did not insult me. I understand why you said what you said. I do not take it personally.” 

It was good to know. Mrs. Hughes picked up her valise again, handbag on her other arm, and the pair of them left the guest bedroom with Dr. Kinsey close behind. They went downstairs to the foyer, where Mr. Carson seemed to be lecturing the day maid Alice. She looked right glad for the distraction new faces gave her, and hurried off at once to the green baize door. Dr. Kinsey held open the door so that Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes could make their way out onto the front porch. Beyond the garden gate, there was a taxi car waiting to take them to the station. Thomas still felt slightly dizzy from the medicine earlier, and grimaced as the harsh dusk light momentarily blinded him. From within her cage, Moonpie made more threatening growling noises. 

Thomas descended the front steps after Mrs. Hughes while Mr. Carson shook Dr. Kinsey’s hand. Dr. Kinsey walked them all the way to the gate, and latched it behind them as Mr. Carson opened the door for Mrs. Hughes to allow her entrance. She clambered inside, and Mr. Carson turned as if waiting for Thomas to enter so that he could be in last. Unsure of how to say goodbye properly, Thomas turned to Dr. Kinsey one last time. 

“If the sky falls on our heads, you’re a great man.” Thomas admitted, “The greatest I’ve ever known.” 

Dr. Kinsey was chuffed, if not a little taken aback by the insinuation, “Good to know if bombs start dropping out of the sky.” He said cheerily, ‘Now hurry off or you’ll miss your train.” 

 

It was with slight regret that Thomas crawled into the taxi car and allowed Mr. Carson to squeeze in on his other side. The three of them headed off for Elephant and Cross, and soon embarked on a rather exhausting journey back to Yorkshire. They took a third class compartment to themselves, sitting in the back of the train with Moonpie on the seat next to Thomas while Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes sat across from them. Moonpie was still rather miffed at being forced into a carrier; honestly Thomas would have happily let her sit on his lap but apparently it was rude to let an animal out in public. To compensate, when a trolly lady brought around sandwiches Thomas took one made of tuna and offered it piece by piece to Moonpie through the bars. Her tongue felt like sandpaper against his skin. 

Mr. Carson quirked a rather bushy eyebrow as Thomas refrained from taking a single bit of his sandwich. 

“She's better fed that you are.” He remarked. Thomas gave him a small smile. He was still slightly nervous around Mr. Carson… a kind of habit forced from a time when they hadn’t been so friendly. Thomas wondered what his earlier self might have done or said had he known that Mr. Carson would attempt to adopt him. 

Honestly he would have stood up in the Somme and gotten his head blown off instead of his hand. 

“It was good of you to apologize.” Mrs. Hughes praised him. “Dr. Kinsey has been very kind to you.” 

“So you budged.” Mr. Carson said amusedly. Thomas flushed, stroking at Moonpie through the bars. “I knew you would see sense in the end. You’re as flighty as a woman.” 

Mrs. Hughes slowly turned to look at Mr. Carson, her expression plainly reading: “Sometimes I want to kill you.” 

 

They arrived around ten at night, one of the last trains to pull into the Downton station. Thomas had been away from the area for so long that it made him incredibly nostalgic. Even the waiting benches in the train tea room called out to him. Everything in the country screamed for attention: the trees, the grass, the wild flowers, the twittering of birds returning to the nest. Thomas looked upon them all with new eyes, sluggish and exhausted but grateful. Everything seemed fresh to him. Everything seemed clean. He even felt tempted to fall to his knees and kiss the dirt as he waited for a public bus with the Carsons. They took it to the outskirts of the village, by which they could simply walk back to the Carson’s house. Thomas was grateful that he could not see the abbey yet. He felt certain that if he were to catch sight of the spires that he would have some sort of seizure in response to the stress. 

Either that or he’d run for the doors and howl the whole way there like some kind of a banshee. 

“When we get home, I’ll fix us some tea. Then I want you to lay down.” Mrs. Hughes said, juggling her valise from one hand to the other in order to keep from straining one of her arms. Thomas reached out and took the valise in his other hand, relieving Mrs. Hughes of her burden. She gave him a gentle smile, “You’re tired. I can tell.” She said, “You’re still too medicated to be out and about.” 

Out and about… like the world would wait anyways, “When will you tell his Lordship that I’m home?” Thomas asked, sensing imminent doom. 

“He already knows.” Mr. Carson said. Thomas’ heart jumped, and he paused in his tracks. Dear god was Tom at the house? Why had no one come to get them at the station if the family already knew? 

“Thomas?” Mrs. Hughes called out to him. 

“Is…” Thomas took a moment to get himself together, “If they know then does-“ 

“No.” Mr. Carson answered his question before Thomas could stutter out the full sentence. It seemed he understood Thomas’ fear. “His Lordship and I both agreed that the information should be kept quiet until we further understand the situation.” 

Thomas saw Mrs. Hughes mouth ‘further understand the situation’ incredulously. She rolled her eyes and reached out to take Thomas’ arm. She pulled him along, almost leaving Mr. Carson behind as he brought up the rear. 

“We’ll get you settled and then we’ll tell Mr. Branson you’re home.” Mrs. Hughes murmured in his ear. 

Thomas didn’t know if that was supposed to comfort him or not. 

 

By the time that the Carson’s cottage finally came into view, Thomas was so tired that he was stumbling from side to side. Mrs. Hughes’ arm was the only thing truly keeping him up. He wanted to rest. He wanted to sleep. 

Mr. Carson opened the door and let them all inside, with Moonpie yowling by this point to be let out of her cage at the top of her lungs. Mr. Carson made to start a fire in the darkened living room grate while Mrs. Hughes took Thomas obediently upstairs. In prison, Thomas had felt almost numbed to the point of memory lapse. He’d forgotten details, or remembered them too vividly until he’d been to the point of weeping with Butterbean on his lap. There had been certain things which had struck him hard, and one of them had been his guest room in the Carson’s cottage. How soft the bed had been… how lovely the sheets had felt. Now confronted with the image again, Thomas wanted to weep once more as Mrs. Hughes pushed open his bedroom door. 

It seemed unreal to imagine the Carson’s wanted to adopt him. That this room might very well be his own bedroom, and not for an irregular guest. Mrs. Hughes sat Moonpie’s carrier atop the quilted duvet, and opened the top by the leather straps so that moonpie could finally jump out. She looked absolutely bitter, hissing and spitting as she leapt onto Thomas’ pillow and began to knead at it in a fit of rage. Mrs. Hughes swatted her fluffy behind, forcing the cat to stop. 

“Enough of that. You can stop your complaining.” Mrs. Hughes chided her, “You’re not the only one who had to sit on that train.” 

Moonpie licked her outer fangs, and settled down upon Thomas’ bed. Mrs. Hughes took her cage and sat it in the corner. 

“And if you think you’re leaving a mess in my house, you have another thing coming.” Mrs. Hughes added irritably. At first Thomas thought she was talking to him. 

“I- I won’t make a mess.” He said. Mrs. Hughes turned and gave him a watery smile, taking both of his cheeks in her hands to stroke at his high bones. 

“I wasn’t talking to you, my dear.” Mrs. Hughes murmured. “I was talking to the cat. I know you won’t make a mess.” 

Thomas felt slightly relieved at that. 

Mrs. Hughes dropped her hands, rubbing a bit at his back. 

  “You don’t have to pretend to be happy for my sake.” Mrs. Hughes assured him. “I know you’re unwell. I know you’re confused… but you’re home now and that’s all that matters. You’re safe. You can rest here.” 

“I’m just very worried, Mrs…” Thomas paused, unsure if he should still call her Mrs. Hughes if she wanted to be his mother. Was that the proper title for someone making enquiries to adoption facilities? Mrs? 

Mrs. Hughes looked down at her feet, then back up at him with a tight watery smile, “I suppose it might be too much at first.” She said reproachfully, “To call me… mother.” She said. 

Thomas thought back to his time in Wakefield. To his isolation cell and how he’d once seen (imagined?) a form of his biological mother over him, pressing a kiss to his forehead. 

Oddly, it did not feel like betrayal to call Mrs. Hughes something similar. When it came to his father, however… Thomas still felt deep pangs of regret. 

He wondered if that would ever stop. 

“… It’s alright.” Thomas said. He looked at Mrs. Hughes, at her watery and tight lipped smile. How she seemed to be holding back a sigh or a frown. 

He was her last line of hope in a life of servitude that had demanded her loneliness. She’d wanted a child, she’d wanted a son… and here he was calling her Mrs. 

For shame. 

“Mum.” He finished.   
Mrs. Hughes was chuffed, flushing a bit as she threaded her fingers together. 

“… You-“ She reached up and patted his arm lovingly. “You go lay down. I’ll make you tea.” 

Thomas would be a fool to miss the way she delightedly patted the back of her head, testing her hair for loose strands. There were none. 

Thomas moved Moonpie’s carrier onto the floor as Mrs. Hughes went back down the stairs. He then sat down, unlaced his shoes, and fell gracelessly onto the bed to sprawl against the mattress. 

He closed his eyes, shifted his legs, and promptly rolled over onto his side with his back to the door to go to sleep. Fuck the tea, he’d drink it later. 

Of course, he was still slightly awake when Mrs. Hughes returned. He kept his eyes closed, absolutely content to lay still as Mrs. Hughes’ came to a pause. 

Thomas did not have his eyes open, though he was still awake, and therefor could not see the way Mrs. Hughes paused, cup of hot tea in hand, at the door. She smiled, and sat the cup down atop the dresser (Thomas’ dresser, she reminded herself) to fetch a spare duvet from the closet (Thomas’ closet). She threw it over Thomas’ sleeping form (little did she know he was still awake), and plumped his pillow a bit. 

She noticed a large strand of his hair was astray and gently brushed it back into place. Without pomade, his hair was relatively light and fluffy, almost similar to Moonpie (who was purring contentedly on the pillow next to Thomas’ face) 

She really shouldn’t.   
But she really wanted to. 

 

Nervous, not wanting to overstep her boundaries, Elsie Hughes carefully leaned forward till she was but an inch away from Thomas’ cheek. She placed her lips upon his skin, barely a brush or a peck. She remembered being young and having her mother kiss her. She wondered if Thomas’ biological mother had ever kissed him. 

_But it doesn’t matter_ , Elsie thought triumphantly as she straightened up and glowed down at Thomas, _Because I’ll kiss him now_. 

She stepped back and left the room, closing his door with care so as not to ‘wake’ him. 

Thomas smiled till his stitches pinched, grinning like a dope with the imprint of Mrs. Hughes’ kiss still warm upon his cheekbone.

~*~

Robert Crawley found it a slight shame that he’d never been to the Carson’s cottage before, and wanted to amend that fault as soon as possible. 

It had been an exhausting roller coaster, even from afar, to watch Tom and Barrow go through their harrowing ordeals. 

Robert could remember being young- forced into a suit and tie while still wishing for nothing but his nursery upstairs. While Rosamund had been allowed to hide, Robert had been forced to go downstairs and mingle with his father’s associates during particularly splendid dinner parties. He’d been thirteen, exhausted by the whole affair, and had hidden along the back wall while he’d watched his father court the entire room. His mother had been a glittering gem in an extravagant blue dress, showing ladies about the hall and pointing to paintings high up on the walls. 

He’d met Wilde once there, hiding along the back wall and poking out behind the pillars holding up the gallery floor. Wilde had been a tall man, with a long jaw and flowing dark hair. He’d commanded the room with an undeniable presence. In a fine velvet tux and a soft blue neck scarf, Wilde had cast eyes about the foyer, clearly looking for topics of interest. Once he’d spotted Robert, and had flashed him a small but sincere smile before tipping his head in the direction of Robert’s father. Robert’s father had motioned for him to come closer, and so Robert had obliged. 

Wilde had said something to Robert- he couldn’t remember it now- something simple like ‘how do you do’ and such. It had been years later when Robert had finally learned that there were other types of men; his father and uncle had discussed it beside the fire and Robert had overheard. His head had spun at the insinuation that some men did not lay with women. That they instead lay with men. How on earth did they go about it? How did they find it pleasurable? Robert’s jaw had been on the floor by the end of the conversation. The more he’d asked, the more his father had drank. The more he’d drank, the more he’d said. By the end of the night, Robert had been unable to look his father in the eye. 

He’d never told his mother about that conversation. He’d never told anyone, really. Once he’d mentioned it to Cora when they’d been drinking, but they’d burst into titters and had sworn never to talk about it again. 

Ah to be young and in love. 

Robert stood still as Bates carefully brushed his shoulders free of lint and dust. He wore a tawny grey suit today with his blue tie (Bates often picked it out; it was his favorite one to wear). He straightened his knot in his standing mirror; Bates began to pack away his shining kit to pull out a fine tooth comb, and carefully parted Robert’s hair with care. Bates was always such a tender valet. 

“You’ll keep this all confidential of course?” Robert asked, looking over his shoulder at Bates who was now combing the back of his head.

Admittedly Robert might have confided in Bates more than was strictly… but what one man did with his valet was a private and honorable affair since the dawn of civilized man. 

“Of course, M’lord.” Bates said, putting away his comb. 

The fact of the matter was that Robert was worried about Tom learning that Barrow was at the Carson’s when the man was still mooning over maps of London and calling up every business he could find to see if someone had seen a man like Barrow in their shop. 

So far he’d called close to three hundred businesses. They were starting to get complaint calls back. 

“I don’t want Tom knowing Barrow has arrived home until I’ve assessed the damage for myself. If Barrow is too badly hurt, it won’t be fair to put him back to work.” Robert tilted his head to the side, irritated at the thought of having a butler besides Barrow when Carson had groomed the boy so well. “We’ll figure something out. We always do in the end… but Tom’s too drawn in on this topic to think clearly. Anyway-“ Robert smiled at Bates, cocking a gray eyebrow, “I like to think I’m smarter than him when it comes to these sort of things. Don’t let the others know I said that.” 

“Your secret is safe with me, M’lord.” Bates assured him. 

As far as Robert knew, two secrets had been uttered today. Which one was Bates keeping? The fact he was going to the Carson’s? Or the fact that he felt he was slightly smarter than Tom? 

~*~

Back at the Carson’s cottage, Thomas sat on the back stoop of the kitchen scratching intermittently at his face while Mrs. Hughes tended to her crops. Some things were still up and coming, like the carrots and the peas… other things were flourishing, or at least starting to. Spinach and spring onions were in full gale. Mrs. Hughes watered them with a can, humming softly to herself while Thomas sat quietly on the steps and watched her. 

And scratched himself. 

“Thomas…” Mrs. Hughes warned him, not even bothering to look up. “Stop.” 

Thomas scowled and dropped his hand.   
Only to start scratching again when the itch became unbearable. 

Mrs. Hughes stretched, standing up and dusting dirt off her hands. She washed her hands in the pale before stepping around her garden to squat down again by the back steps. 

“Are your scars itching?” Mrs. Hughes asked, as if that was not perfectly obvious by now. 

Thomas grumbled, palming his cheeks in his hands. He sighed, closing his eyes as he buried his face against his kneecaps till Mrs. Hughes forced him to look up again. 

“I want you to go to Dr. Clarkson.” She murmured, turning his face this way and that to better see his stitches. They were tight, with soft pink around the edges…clearly healing well. Yet before Mrs. Hughes could diagnose him further, the sound of the telephone ringing from the living room gave her pause. She got up and left him on the back stoop, whisking out of sight as Thomas started to scratch at his face again. It was almost soothing. 

Mrs. Hughes soon returned, and when she did so she pulled him to his feet to brush a bit at his trouser legs were dirt still clung. 

“That’ll have to wait.” Mrs. Hughes said, “You need to get washed up.” 

“Why?” Thomas asked. 

“His lordship is coming to speak with you.” Mrs. Hughes said. Thomas instantly felt a nervous jolt in his stomach at the realization that he would soon be face to face with Lord Grantham. Would it be a visitation or a confessional? And what would it lead to? And would he come alone? 

What if he didn’t come alone? What if he came with Tom?   
Thomas paused on the back step, unsure of what to do or say in light of that horror. Part of him felt incredibly ashamed that Tom had become a trigger to him… part of him didn’t know what else to expect. He wanted Tom. He needed Tom. But god how he feared Tom, and all the love and joy he could bring. It was easier to be the victim… Dr. Kinsey had told him that. 

It was easier, but he was miserable. 

He went upstairs and redressed, nervously fidgeting with his purple tie and dark brown vest as Mrs. Hughes re-straightened her hair and put on a new skirt. Thomas was sorely tempted to take a hit of his anxiety medicine but refrained, knowing that he’d end up confused and disorientated in front of his lordship. He ended up staying upstairs, hiding in his room as Mrs. Hughes prepared a tea tray and waited for his lordship. 

When Thomas heard the sound of tires rolling on the front lawn, he grimaced and bowed his head. Upon his bed, Moonpie yawned and stretched before rubbing her head repeatedly against his elbow. He reached around blindly and petted her, running his fingers through her silky lilac hair. 

He heard a knock on the front door, and waited for the blow. 

“M’lord!” He heard Mrs. Hughes say, delightedly. 

“Fuck me fuck me fuck me, bugger me, fuck me.” Thomas mumbled under his breath. He looked down at Moonpie who was starting to drool again. “Clean up your face you look like a wreck.” He told her before rising up off the bed. 

He took a deep breath, smoothed back his hair, and left the bedroom behind.   
Moonpie followed him. 

The pair of them went downstairs; Thomas found himself lingering longer than usual upon the steps, listening to the sounds of Mrs. Hughes and Lord Grantham speaking in the living room. 

“I was hoping to see him?” 

“Oh he’s just upstairs, M’lord. I think he got a little spooked. He’s been very fragile since we got him back. Poor lamb.” 

“I didn’t mean to bother him-“ 

“Oh it’s not you, your lordship. It’s everyone. Can I offer you a cup of tea?” 

“That would be most kind, thank you Mrs. Hughes.” Moonpie decidedly to let out an annoyingly loud meow at this moment, rubbing against Thomas’ calves. “Do you have a cat now?” Lord Grantham sounded oddly dismayed. 

“Oh, that’s Thomas’ cat, M’lord.” Mrs. Hughes said, “He got it while he was in London. It belonged to Dr. Kinsey but he didn’t want it and Thomas was incredibly fond of the animal… so it came home with him. Lemon or sugar?” 

Hiding in the dark, Thomas pressed his face into the wall. He breathed the smell of dust hiding in the grooves of the wall. Moonpie brushed against his legs again. 

“Thomas.” 

Thomas jumped back, nearly tripping over the foot of the stairs as he flattened himself against the opposite wall. Mrs. Hughes had somehow managed to sneak up on him and whisper right in his ear, the result of which made him smack his head hard enough to see stars in front of his eyes. Thomas groaned, clutching the back of his head in his hands, only to be besieged by a very motherly Mrs. Hughes who whispered apologies in his ears. 

“Does it hurt?” She worried, carefully placing her hands on the back of his head. To be fair he had a knot that was pulsing angrily. 

Thomas straightened back up, rubbing vigorously at the back of his head till Mrs. Hughes smoothed his hair down. 

“I’m sorry for frightening you.” She whispered, and she certainly looked sorry with huge pleading brown eyes, “but you’re being rude to our house guest. Come into the living room and speak with his lordship.” 

“And let him see my scars?” Thomas rubbed at the edges of his lips where the stitches still poked out. 

“His lordship is a kind and tolerant man.” Mrs. Hughes murmured, rubbing his back sympathetically, “And I should think he would find it a badge of honor. Not shame.” 

She might of had a point there. 

Thomas found himself subconsciously putting his hand over his mouth as he slowly rounded the corner of the stairwell. Mrs. Hughes was at his side, Moonpie at his feet, and still Thomas could help but keep his eyes on the floor. 

Lord Grantham rose up from Mrs. Hughes’ couch, dressed in his beige suit and blue tie (why did Bates always pick that hideous tie?). Thomas flushed, bowing his head a bit in a show of humility before his prior (future?) employer. 

“My dear fellow.” Lord Grantham said. Thomas suddenly found himself remembering the last time he’d seen Lord Grantham before Wakefield. How the man had begged Sergeant Willas for mercy. Had demanded it really. 

I mean- he hadn’t gotten it… but still he’d demanded it. That counted for something. 

“Won’t you please sit down?” Lord Grantham gestured to Mr. Carson’s chair across from him. Thomas stared at it wide eyed, with his hand still over his mouth. 

No. There was no way in hell that he was sitting in that chair. That chair was for members of the gentry and Mr. Carson alone. Even Moonpie could not sit in that chair (oddly she hadn’t even tried). 

“I’d rather stand M’lord.” Thomas admitted, “Please, don’t stand for me-” 

“Great scot-“ Lord Grantham cut him off, looking abhorrently at Thomas’ calves were Moonpie was pacing and licking her protruding chops, “What is that fiendish creature?” 

“…My cat, M’lord.” Thomas finished lamely. Lord Grantham seemed genuinely disturbed by the creature. Of course, no one was getting points for deducing that Lord Grantham was a dog person. Mrs. Hughes dithered between the two of them, gesturing to Carson’s armchair like she thought Thomas would actually take it. Instead Lord Grantham sat back down and Mrs. Hughes timidly offered him another cup of tea. 

Lord Grantham accepted, but looked slightly uncomfortable. 

“I can’t tell you how glad I am to see you returned to us, Barrow.” Lord Grantham gestured to him. 

“Thank you, M’lord.” Thomas bobbed his head again but never dropped his hand. Lord Grantham seemed to understand why. 

“I know you’ve expressed great concerns about being too disfigured to return to work.” Lord Grantham said, “I’ve come to speak with you and see if we can’t work something out. Carson cannot stay on as butler, and I would rather you returned to the position given your influence in the house above and below stars…” He paused. 

“Will you consent to show me your scars?” Lord Grantham asked. 

Thomas paused, glancing at Mrs. Hughes. Her lips were pursed into a tight line, but her face was likewise set. She would not change her stance. 

Thomas dropped his hand and looked away, well aware that his Lordship would be disgusted by his lips. 

“God in heaven.” Lord Grantham sounded just as disturbed by Thomas’ stitched lips as he was by Moonpie. In a defense mechanism, Thomas reached down and plucked up Moonpie from the floor to hold her against his chest. She purred delightedly, licking her outer chops. 

Lord Grantham stood back up, seeming to work better when on his feet. Now all three of them were clustered around the coffee table looking like fools. Moonpie’s purring could surely be heard outside the front door, it was so loud. 

“Who did this to you?” Lord Grantham was groping his chin, gripping his jaw as if that would somehow bring sense and reason back into the situation. 

The fact of the matter was that if Lord Grantham was in the right mood, he could destroy Barsette with one foul placed word. But Thomas was terrified of Barsette, point blank, and even the idea of slamming him with blackmail or cruel justice made Thomas horribly nervous. There were times when Thomas panicked at the idea of Barsette hunting him down…seeking him out for the dangerous loose end that he was. 

Thomas had a feeling he would be seeing Barsette in his personal hell. 

“I cannot say, M’lord.” Thomas mumbled into Moonpie’s lilac fur. “He’s a dangerous man and I fear he will harm others I care for if I seek retribution.” 

Lord Grantham looked disappointed at this. 

“If that is what you wish, I respect it Barrow.” Lord Grantham finally conceded, sitting back down on the couch exhausted, “but I confess I wish you’d let me do more.” 

Do more? God, the man had already done enough by coming down here and meeting Thomas to ‘check’ on his condition. What other Lord would have done that for a mere servant? Certainly not the one that had called Dr. Kinsey a quack. 

“I’ve scheduled an appointment with Dr. Clarkson to get his stitches removed tomorrow, M’lord.” Mrs. Hughes spoke up, taking Thomas by the tip of his chin to run her thumb gently over the top of his stitches where they itched. “I’m sure the scarring will look much less noticeable after they’re gone. I don’t think it’s all that bad, do you, M’lord?” She looked to Lord Grantham who merely shrugged. 

“I confess, the scarring is a little distracting.” Lord Grantham didn’t seem concerned, “But only because I’d known your face from before. But I do not think you should hide indefinitely from the abbey. Carson cannot continue to work in his age, and the staff are in need of your direction. I want you to return, Barrow.” 

Thomas didn’t know what to say. On one had he desperately wanted to return, to get things back to normal… but on the other hand… Tom. 

Oh, Tom… 

“Can I…” Thomas felt like he was waffling about but what else could he do when he didn’t know his answer and wanted more time? “Can I maybe take a day or two to return and.. fix things… M’lord?” 

“Take as long as you like.” Lord Grantham brushed it aside, “On another note, Carson has informed me of your adventures in London. That you’re to be adopted?” Lord Grantham’s smile quirked at the corners. 

Thomas flushed, utterly embarrassed for a new reason. Lord Grantham seemed even more amused than before. Damn it all. 

“I confess, I find it incredibly bizarre.” Lord Grantham said, which caused Mrs. Hughes to titter a bit with a flush across her wrinkled cheeks. “Perhaps you’ll all do well for one another, though. In any rate, it would keep you and your… cat…” Lord Grantham waved an offended hand at Moonpie like she was a barn animal dripping mud on the rug, “away from the abbey at night. It’ll be good for Tom.” 

At the mention of Tom’s name, Thomas bowed his head. Even Lord Grantham seemed sobered, and stroked his jaw again. 

“I don’t necessarily… understand your love,” Lord Grantham blustered for the appropriate word, “But I don’t wish you ill. Certainly not after all you’ve suffered which brings me to my final point. Shall I tell Tom that you’ve arrived home? Mr. Carson made it seem like you were tentative for Tom to know.” 

Thomas looked away, holding Moonpie close to his chest. Mrs. Hughes waited silently for his answer, standing with support at his elbow. 

Thomas slowly stooped over and sat Moonpie back upon the floor. He dusted her lilac hair off of his arms. 

“… It’s difficult to explain, M’lord.” Thomas admitted, unwilling to meet Lord Grantham’s eyes again. “I can only convey that it is love that keeps me away. Nothing else.” 

There was a time when Lord Grantham might have been dismayed by such a statement. When he might have scoffed or looked away- even made Thomas to leave the abbey. Now, however, in lieu of Wakefield- in lieu of it all… Lord Grantham merely nodded and laced his fingers together atop his lap. 

“As you say.” Was all he said, “I merely think it would be better if all temptation were to be put aside… on that matter.” Lord Grantham muttered. 

“I agree completely, M’lord.” Mrs. Hughes was strong in tone, “Besides, you don’t need romance right now, Thomas. You need to heal. You didn’t need it before, either!” She warned, a slight finger in his face. Thomas winced as if she’d brandished a knife at him instead. 

“Then you’ll consent to return to the abbey in a week with my blessing?” Lord Grantham asked. “…Sans feline?” 

He seemed determined to make that a point, as if Thomas was going to arrive back at the abbey with the cat riding shotgun or something. 

Thomas pursed his lips, brow furrowed, “M’lord” was all he said.   
Moonpie meowed plaintively from his calves. 

~*~

That night at the abbey, dinner was served with cold chicken in a lemon and basil sauce. Normally Tom was quite fond of the dish. Chicken was his favorite meat. But tonight he merely sat stirring idly with his fork, wondering (for what was surely the billionth time) where Thomas was. 

His worst fear, by far, was that Thomas was dead. That he’d gotten off at Elephant and Cross only to be mugged and murdered, left to die in the streets. Robert had tireless persuaded him that this could not possibly be true, because his detectives had not found any hint of foul play along the routes close to Elephant and Cross- indeed no murders in London proper linked up with someone of Thomas’ description. His second fear was that Thomas had simply decided to run away forever. That he would surely never return…. that he’d simply given up on Tom, given up on everything they shared, and would live the rest of his life on the lam hiding from society and the abby.

Each night before bed, Tom prayed relentlessly to God. To deliver Thomas home to him and to make him whole once more. But each day passed and God remained silent. Tom was starting to wonder if the rumors were true; if God’s ears were mute to the prayers of men that fiddled with the same sex. He didn’t want to believe it… he didn’t want to imagine that the deity his gentle mother had favored every meal and blessing to was the same deity that would gladly kill Thomas and leave Tom a widower forever. 

Yet William Blake had also speculated on this concept and had come up with the same questionable conclusion: _Did he who made the lamb make thee?_

Tom just couldn’t say anymore. 

“How did your errand go?” Cora spoke up, dabbing at her lips delicately with her silk napkin. 

The family was centered cozily around the table, with Mary and Henry newly returned from a brief sojurn to Wales (there had been some kind of wedding), and Robert having run an errand earlier that day. He hadn’t told anyone where he was going, so the family had speculated it must have been some kind of a doctor’s appointment. God bless Robert, but every time he had a stomach pain he jammed his fingers in his ears and whistled to drown out the nagging voices that bade him to get help. 

“Well, I’m glad to say.” Robert said. Mr. Carson (standing behind Robert) looked equally pleased, and everyone at the table relaxed. 

“You never said where you were going.” Cora reminded him, “You’d tell me if it was another doctor, wouldn’t you?” 

“Oh, not to worry.” Robert chortled, waving an affectionate hand, “I’m quite well.” 

“It’s difficult not to worry ever since the Red Dinner.” Mary reminded him. That had become their term for the fateful night. 

“Yes that was rather ghastly wasn’t it.” Robert agreed, “But I assure you my stomach is fine. I went to visit the Carson’s.” 

“The Carson’s?” Cora repeated, slightly confused. “Why ever did you go there?” 

“Well, since they were back from London… I wanted to see the cottage.” Robert waffled about, smiling pleasantly. 

“…Why were you in London?” Tom spoke up, the name of the city causing his heart to skip a beat. He looked around, eyes locking with Carson who was beginning to noticeably sweat. Robert paused with his fork halfway to his mouth, glancing behind him to note that Carson had put down the wine decanter so as not to drop it. 

Andy cocked an eyebrow from across the table, confused.   
So it seemed that even the servants were amiss. 

When no one answered him, Tom sat down his un used fork and rose up from the table. “Why did you go to London?” He repeated, slightly more loud than before, “Tell me.” 

“Tom, please.” Cora said, “I’m sure it was nothing-“ 

“Mrs. Hughes wished to travel.” Was all that Carson said. Tom did not look away from him, and did not retake his seat. Wished to travel, what horse shit. 

“It was about Thomas, wasn’t it?” Tom asked. “You have information?” 

“Tom.” Cora protested again. 

“Well, do you?” Tom begged, “If you know something then for god’s sake tell me. Do you have any idea the pain I’m living through over here-?” 

“Tom, if they knew something they’d tell you straight away.” Mary declared in full faith. “Neither Carson nor papa would be so cruel as to keep you in the dark on something like that.” 

Carson winced.   
It was the first time Tom had ever seen him do so. 

Mary paused, slightly taken aback at the Butler’s guilty expression. She too put down her fork, carefully folding and refolding her napkin in her lap as she (once again) gently met Carson’s eyes. 

“…Right, Carson?” Mary repeated, “Or has there been some lead we don’t know of.” 

“It’s…not for me to say.” Carson fumbled. 

“Oh my god!” Tom’s heart was all but pounding in his chest- so there had been a lead-! “Is he dead? Is he alive? Do you know where he is?” Tom demanded, “Please God just spare me and tell me if you know-!” 

“He’s not dead!” Carson cut him off, irritable at the insinuation, “He’s perfectly fine, he’s at my-“ 

But then he clamped down again, pursing his lips into a thin white line. 

Mary was taken aback. Robert put his head in his hand.   
Tom was certain all the blood was draining from his face. 

“… He’s at your…?” Tom stuttered, “Your what? Your cottage? Is he at your cottage?” 

Carson looked away. 

Tom could hear the soft ticking of the mantel clock across the room. He could practically hear Robert’s elevated pulse hammering away in graying veins. Cora was gaping at her husband as if she did not know him. Both Mary and Henry were likewise disturbed. 

“But Carson, surely if Thomas was at your cottage, you’d have told Tom straight away.” Mary urged, “When you know how worried he’s been. 

Carson looked ready to vomit from guilt. He bowed his head slightly. 

“… Thomas requested that I… not tell Mr. Branson.” Carson finally admitted, sounding incredibly guilty indeed. “He wanted more time to-“ 

But he never got the final word out. 

Tom pushed his chair violently back from the table, bounding across the room even as Robert jerked up and shouted, “Tom, come back here! For god’s sake!” 

“I could murder you all if I wasn’t so happy!” Tom cried, not even bothering to turn his back as he fled the dining room. 

The Carson’s had found Thomas- by god they had found him! He chalked it all up to Mrs. Hughes, it had to have been her doing. She was the smart one, she knew best! She must have found something and gone after the lead forcing Carson to follow. Thomas was scared out of his mind by this point- he probably thought Tom would be angry at him for not coming straight home. But Tom understood how afraid Thomas could get- how his anxiety and depression made him jumpy and quick to assume malicious thoughts. Thomas didn’t realize that Tom loved him, but Tom would remind him by god. He would remind him in full force tonight! 

Tom bounded through the front door, not even bothering to shut it properly. Carson would get it- Carson was probably coming after him… but he’d never catch him! Tom was flying on the wings of angels by this point, dashing across cold dewy grass as he ran around the outer perimeter of the abbey to the side alley where the garage was kept. Everything seemed fine and beautiful tonight; the stars were beginning to glow and the wind was shifting blissfully through the trees above. Tom could swear there was music playing as he shoved open the garage door and grabbed the aged tarp from atop his motor car. He jerked it hard, pulling the whole thing clean off in one fell swoop. The keys were hidden in the glove box; Tom leapt over the door and into the car to rummage for the keys. He turned the motor several times, headlights flickering on and off as the car tried to start. 

“C’mon… C’mon…” Tom groaned. The car burst to life as the engine roared! “Yes!” Tom cried out elatedly. 

He gunned it, speeding off into the night. 

He was probably going much too fast, and wasn’t this how Matthew was killed? But god damnit, Tom didn’t care. The faster he drove meant the faster he got to Thomas. 

He was driving so fast that he nearly missed the turn lane to head onto the Carson’s private drive. He skidded, dirt flying out on the road beneath him, but righted the car with a steady hand to gun it once more down the short path to the cottage. When it loomed into sight, living room lights blazing and smoke puffing from the chimeney, Tom almost wanted to punch the air with enthusiasm. Instead, he slammed on the break forcing the car to skid again. When it stopped he took the keys and shoved them in his vest pocket, leaping out of the car and running for the front door. 

He considered hammering and yowling, but only for a second. Mrs. Hughes and Thomas were not expecting him, and he didn’t want to frighten them. Instead, Tom took a second to ground himseld, sucking in deep breaths and running hands through his hair to force it back into position after his wild ride. He then reached out and began to knock politely at the door. 

When no one answered after the first minute, Tom just kept knocking. Harder and harder and _damnit open the damn door-!_

The door opened; Tom nearly collided his fist with Mrs. Hughes’ collarbone. 

The moment that she saw him, her face turned white. She seemed to realize why he was here, from his state of disarray still in white tie with the road to her house now sporting tire marks. She glanced over her shoulder, then back at Tom, and carefully stepped outside the house to join him on the stoop and shut the door. 

“Where is he?” Tom begged. “Show me, please. Let me see him-“ 

“He’s a little fragile right now.” Mrs. Hughes protested, “I know you’re upset, but please. Think of his needs.” 

“I know what he needs.” Tom declared, grabbing the handle and opening the door so that Mrs. Hughes had no choice but to let him inside. “I’m what he needs.” 

Mrs. Hughes didn’t know what to say to that. 

So long they’d been parted, and under such horrific circumstances. Not too long ago, a time had been when Tom had thought Thomas would never return home to him. Every wall imaginable had been between them and even in wild circumstances when they’d managed to find freedom, Thomas still had been gone from his sight. From his arms. From his bed. 

Tom had clung to the pillow opposite him for too many weeks now, smelling the place where only once Thomas had laid his head, writhing in ecstasy as they made love. 

Even that memory was tarnished by fear. 

Tom walked through the house, looking left and right. Thomas wasn’t in the living room, nor in the adjacent dining room where a large oak table was cluttered by house work. The kitchen seemed to be boasting boiling pots of water, clearly getting ready to make dinner, and the back door was open to the garden. 

Tom stepped around the diving wall, wondering perhaps if Thomas was upstairs taking a light nap before supper. 

But then he heard humming and paused.   
~*~

Thomas felt like a child again, rummaging through Mrs. Hughes’ garden patch. Obsessed with a song he’d heard on the wireless, he hummed it to himself under his breath only to give way to soft singing as he pulled a spring onion up from the patch. One by one he collected his prizes, placing them in a wicker basket as he’d been bidden to. He’d already nabbed up all the spinach. 

_“Where somebody waits for me… Sugar sweet, so is he. Bye bye Blackbird…”_ Thomas paused to blow hard atop a spring onion so that the dirt scattered on it would fly. He placed it atop the basket in a juggling pyramid. 

_“No one here can love or understand me, all those hard luck stories they all hand me. Make my bed, light my light, I’ll arrive late tonight… Bye bye Blackbird, bye bye.”_

There was nothing else to pluck. Slightly disappointed at his tiny haul, Thomas rose up to dust dirt from his knees and pluck up his wicker basket. He straightened up, looked back to the kitchen door, and saw a man standing in the sill with golden light spilling onto his square shoulders. 

Thomas dropped his basket. 

Tom Branson looked like a man reborn- a man who had seen the light of god and lived to tell the tale. A man who wanted nothing more than to proclaim his delight to the heavens over and over and over again- to tell everyone he’d seen something glorious. Something new. 

Or perhaps not. 

Tom took a step down onto the garden path, then another till his leather shoes were touching bare spring grass. 

Tom took another step, eyes shining. 

In a rush it all came back to Thomas; Tom’s beauty of heart and body- his spirit as rich as the finest wine to ever grace Lord Grantham’s table. The smell of his hair laced in coconut milk and Irish soap. His lips, so smooth- like a river stone that had been worn with the sweet rush of water. 

“… I’m… scarred..” Thomas could think of nothing else to say.   
The reason why he’d run away. 

His voice seemed to spark a frantic frenzy within Tom, who took three great strides across the crisp green grass to sweep Thomas up into his arms. Mrs. Hughes’ wicker basket was long forgotten, kicked upon its side as Thomas’ foot swept past it. 

For a moment he could not understand the gravity of the moment before him. A man was holding him, but what for? The realization that this man was Tom- that this man was the love of his life- that this moment was so incredibly lucky in its gestation that it could be called a miracle— all these things hit Thomas in waves until he was blubbering, grabbing onto Tom as tightly as he could manage, burying his face in Tom’s hair so that his lips were tracing the shell of his ear as he wept. 

“My love, my lagan love-“ Tom was rambling, kissing his cheeks and lips, turning his face so that Thomas’ nose was smushed against his own, “Thank god you’re safe. Thank god. Oh… thank god.” 

The moisture that collected between them was a mixture of both their tears. It was impossible to say whose belonged to whose. 

Thomas was suddenly plunged into the memory of Wakefield. Into the desolation and solitude of his cell where only a murderous ghost and a harvest mouse had kept him company. He’d feared life in that cell. Feared that he would never feel grass beneath his feet, or see a clear blue sky above him- never sleep on clean sheets or taste wine again— never see Tom. Above all, never see Tom. 

The rest he could live without. Let him be in a barren howling wilderness, let him sleep on a rock and drink soured milk… but don’t let him be without Tom. Don’t deprive him of that. 

Thomas began to weep with such force and sincerity that it might seem unhealthy. He did not care, fisting Tom’s hair with clenching fingers as he cried into Tom’s neck. 

“Tom-!” Thomas cried out name, his breathy sobs ruining the one syllable, “To-o-om!” 

 

 

For a long time, the pair of them simply clung together. The horrible fear that Thomas had felt at returning to Tom only to be shunned was broken like a false mirror, shattered at his feet while Tom held him tightly in his arms. Wakefield could not get him here… even Barsette would have trouble harming Thomas now. Every time they pulled back, even for an inch, it was met with a smothering kiss. Tom clutched Thomas’ face in his hands, kissing him repeatedly as if to smother his breath and his stitches. It was more than smothering, it was consuming. Purifying. 

It took them a moment to come to their senses, each of them too emotional to let go of the other. Tom could not seem to take his hands off of Thomas; Thomas did not want to be let go of. So the pair of them found it very difficult to pick up Mrs. Hughes’ wicker basket or make their way back inside. 

But what did it matter anymore? 

Thomas found himself smiling even as his tears dried on his cheeks. He felt weakened but relieved, drained… utterly drained. He laid his head on Tom’s shoulder, warmed despite the chill. Tom nuzzled his hair, kissing the shell of his ear and his temple. He’d thought this far gone- the touch of the man he loved about him and warmth upon his skin. He’d thought himself completely awash from Tom on a foreign tide, never to be returned home for one reason or another. Yet here Tom was, and here he would stay, kissing Thomas sweetly into the night. 

When Tom finally got the sense to pick up the wicker basket and lead Thomas back into the house, Thomas went with him silently and kept his head buried in Tom’s shoulder. 

Thomas had been intending to chop Mrs. Hughes vegetables. To help her make a boiled spinach dish. Instead he gave up the task for her, and fell onto the Carson’s couch with Tom where the pair of them became entwined like a pretzel. Thomas all but sat in Tom’s lap, their legs interlocked and his head on Tom’s shoulder. Tom held him around the back, fingers buried in his vest and his hair as Tom delicately used his thumb to stroke Thomas’ cheek. Tom was in such fine clothing- a white tie and smoking vest. Clearly he’d been at dinner; he must have learned the information then and had come straight to the cottage. Thomas felt so calm he might have fallen asleep, hiding from the world as Mrs. Hughes boiled the spinach. 

“I don’t know why I didn’t come straight home.” Thomas whispered. Beyond their meagre conversation, the fire crackled gently in its grimy hearth. “I suppose… I couldn’t. I felt as if I was marked. Outcasted.” 

Tom slowly began to curl his fingers, stretching his grip till his knuckles popped.   
Thomas glanced up and found Tom’s eyes flickering with the echo of the fire. They seemed almost like black pools at first. 

“I want to crush the skull of the man who did this to you.” Tom said with such cold and murderous intent that Thomas suddenly felt greatly afraid. Would he try and seek out Barsette? 

Mrs. Hughes put her two cents in from the kitchen where she was still stirring the pot of spinach and spring onions. “Or a fishing knife.” She added dully. 

Tom rolled his eyes. Thomas wondered what that was all about. 

Thomas sat up carefully, brushing his hair out of his face. Moonpie leapt onto his lap again, having been silently denied the pleasure for a good half hour now. Taking her chances, she buried herself against his trousers, kneading bread and purring deeply as she circled and squatted down. Thomas placed his hands carefully upon her back, threading his fingers through her lilac fur. 

“… Tell me his name.” Tom whispered “Tell me his name so I can kill him.” 

“S’not that easy Tom.” Thomas wouldn’t look at him now. Couldn’t look at him when he was denying him a request. “He told me if I ever told anyone… anyone at all… he’d kill me. He’d kill everyone I love. He’d kill you.” Thomas swallowed, shaking his head and closing his eyes. Sometimes when he was must unnerved he could still see Barsette’s vile face. “I’m afraid of him. I’m terribly afraid-“ 

“Don’t be.” Tom took him by the arms from behind, wrapping his arms tightly around Thomas’ chest till he was pressed to Tom’s chest. “He can’t hurt you now or ever again.” He said fiercely, “So I won’t kill him then- I won’t even touch him. I’ll just have him arrested. I’ll have him jailed for this-“ 

“Oh Tom.” Thomas could hardly imagine such a thing possible when “I don’t want to deal with police anymore. I’m afraid of them. Every time I see one, I think they’re coming to arrest me again.” 

“Not so.” Tom whispered softly into his ear. He gently kissed Thomas’ temple again, “You’re safe. You’re so safe with me.” 

God how Thomas wanted to believe it… but could it be true? 

Part of him was terrified that even now, even with Moonpie in his lap and Mrs. Hughes boiling spinach in the kitchen…. even now. 

Even now Barsette would be coming.   
Coming to take him back to Wakefield, or to kill him once and for all. 

Tom kissed him again, and again. Thomas closed his eyes. 

“We’ll figure something out.” Tom whispered in his ears, “We’ll make him pay for this.” 

Thomas doubted they would. 

Mrs. Hughes stepped out of the kitchen and clearly didn’t like what she saw. She coughed once or twice, imposing herself silently until Thomas opened his eyes and Tom pulled slightly back from Thomas’ chest. 

Unlike before, Tom and Thomas did not part entirely. The experience with Wakefield had changed them both, had made them more frightened of being parted than ever before. 

Mrs. Hughes pursed her lips, and gently patted the back of her hair for stray strands when it became clear Thomas and Tom would not act ‘respectably’. “I’m taking him to Dr. Clarkson’s tomorrow to have his stitches removed.” 

“I’m coming with you.” Tom said. It was clear from his tone that there would be no argument on the subject. He pulled Thomas tighter back to his chest, and Thomas went willingly so that they were once more pressed together. Thomas refused to look at Mrs. Hughes, instead focusing his gaze upon Moonpie who had small driblets of drool coming down from her fangs. 

“As you wish.” Mrs. Hughes spoke in clipped tones and returned to the kitchen. 

 

For a moment the pair of them were simply left alone as dinner was slowly put on the table. Mrs. Hughes set the plates and glasses; normally by now she would be humming to herself but tonight she seemed incredibly quiet. Thomas had a feeling that Tom was making her feel uncomfortable. 

They didn’t have much longer to wait as the hour to nine drew closer. Normally Carson would stay as late as he pleased, to midnight even, but often he came home relatively early to dine with Mrs. Hughes and so it was that as 9:30 struck the key to the front door scraped in its lock. Once again, Tom did not pull away from Thomas, indeed he just held on tighter as both of them looked around to see Carson on the stoop taking off his black bowler hat. Mrs. Hughes puttered out of the kitchen to take his coat from him and kiss him on the cheek. 

“Home again.” He declared, only to take one glance at the living room sofa and delve into an ugly scowl “and why am I not surprised to find you here?” 

“My car is out front?” Tom’s tone was undeniably sarcastic. 

“Entwined with him like a pretzel.” Mr. Carson said, “Do you have any decency? Could you have left the dining hall with any less grace? You completely disrupted dinner!” 

“Oh dear me whatever will become of the fourth entree?” Tom rolled his eyes and pressed his arms tighter around Thomas’ stomach. “Can you imagine that, dove?” he murmured in Thomas’ ear. “Can you imagine dinner without a fourth entree?” 

“Doesn’t do to waste food.” Thomas whispered back. In front of god and everyone, Tom kissed him gently upon his temple. Mr. Carson made a noise like a dying cat. 

“Let’s have no more of that now.” Mrs. Hughes pushed Mr. Carson along into the kitchen area so that he might sit at the table where she’d laid out the plates, “I’ve got your dinner ready. Eat and then we’ll talk. Thomas?” 

Thomas looked around to find Mrs. Hughes waiting by a vacant chair. It seemed she wanted him to eat to. As if on cue, Thomas stomach growled from beneath Tom’s arms. 

“Let’s eat dinner.” Mrs. Hughes urged. 

Thomas rose up from the couch with slight difficulty; Tom wanted to go with him and Moonpie did not like being dropped onto the floor. Tom managed to compromise, scooping up the cat and putting her on the couch where they’d been sitting. The pair of them detached themselves form one another, coming around the side of the living room to stand before the kitchen. Neither Mr. Carson nor Mrs. Hughes looked pleased about the matter. 

Thomas took his seat. Tom sat next to him. Mrs. Hughes remained standing, staring at the pair of them like they were absurd. 

Tom took that moment to carefully place his hand atop the table. Thomas took it without a second thought. The time for soft footing was past. Wakefield awaited cowardly men. 

Mrs. Hughes was absolutely silent as she dolled out boiled spinach, buttered rolls, roast beef in a mushroom stew, and sautéed corn. Each plate sounded obscenely loud as she sat it upon the table. When she poured port for Mr. Carson, he did not immediately begin to drink. The rest of them took decanted white wine, and Mrs. Hughes sat down last as she let out a tiny sigh and bowed her head. 

The prayer she shared with Mr. Carson went unsung by either Tom or Thomas. Thomas doubted the pair of them would ever pray again. 

When Mrs. Hughes reached for his silverware, Thomas refrained. Tom was starving, and so began to eat but without rush. He instead ate quietly and with one hand, using the other to hold Thomas’ atop the table. 

It felt like they were an actual family, and it made it easier for him to eat. 

“We reaped the back garden today.” Mrs. Hughes spoke up. Mr. Carson was clearly having difficulty digesting his food, glowering at where Tom and Thomas held hands atop the table. “The spinach and the spring onion are from our patch. I think we’ve done well.” 

Mr. Carson was still finding difficult to eat. 

“We’re going to the doctor tomorrow.” Mrs. Hughes seemed determined to make conversation. “He’s going to take out the stitches, so that will be nice.” 

“I’m going with you.” Tom smoke up. 

Mr. Carson stopped eating mid bite, and glared at Tom. Tom to his credit did nothing but take a mildly long sip of wine. 

“Are you angry at me, Mr. Carson?” Tom asked, siting his wine glass back down. 

“We’re a bit past that.” Mr. Carson stabbed his roast beef moodily. 

Thomas bowed his head, gingerly fingering a bite of boiled spinach. “… If you’ve decided that you… wish to… adopt me.” Thomas spoke each word gingerly, afraid of their mark, “Then surely you must be aware. That I love him.” 

Mr. Carson balled his fists upon the table, completely halting in his dinner. Even Mrs. Hughes looked tense. 

“We are not going to have this conversation at the dinner table.” Mr. Carson finally said, and it was done with such unnerving quiet that Thomas momentarily stopped eating as well, fearful. 

Would he be plunged into another family situation where his father abused and berated him yet again? Thomas didn’t know if he could take it. Mrs. Hughes gave him a rather sympathetic look, placing her hand atop Mr. Carson’s so that suddenly the two couples were mirroring one another. 

 

“We’re aware.” Mrs. Hughes said, “But I think you know better than I that this situation is hardly-“ 

She broke off, glancing up at Thomas’ face. Thomas was staring stonily at the table, waiting for the world to fall around him. Any minute now… another family denied. 

Mrs. Hughes reached across the table, and delicately patted his hand from where it lay in Tom’s clutch. 

“… We just don’t want you to get hurt.” She finally finished. “And sometimes it can be a wee bit frightening, knowing how much danger you’re in.” 

“I won’t let him get hurt.” Tom said decidedly. He squeezed Thomas’ hand in loving reflex. Mr. Carson slowly started eating again, his face oddly relaxed. 

 

Dinner went by quietly after that, though Mr. Carson did not crack a smile and Mrs. Hughes found it hard to carry on conversation. Desert consisted of treacle tart, and Thomas helped Mrs. Hughes wash up while Tom and Mr. Carson sat idly in the living room. Mr. Carson often liked to read the daily paper by the fire, taking off his aged shoes to let his feet warm by the hearth after a long day of pounding the stairs. Tom merely waited for Thomas, sitting side by side with Moonpie whose tail flicked intermittently when he tried to touch her. 

Thomas retook his seat on the couch, and had to put Moonpie in his lap in order for Mrs. Hughes to sit on his other side and begin her cross stitch. The four of them were quite silent, each preoccupied in their own activity. Mr. Carson read, Mrs. Hughes sewed, Thomas petted Moonpie, and Tom gazed at Thomas lovingly. 

 

When the hour struck midnight, Mr. Carson stretched and yawned, setting his paper beside him and rising back up to his feet. 

“Time for bed.” He declared. Mrs. Hughes set her cross stitch back down in her canvas bag and clambered up, turning off the living room light. 

“I’m going to spend the night here if that’s alright.” Tom spoke up, causing Mr. Carson to halt mid step. Mrs. Hughes looked warily over her shoulder to where Tom and Thomas sat side by side on the couch with Moonpie curled between them. 

“Is there something wrong with your bed at the abbey?” Mr. Carson asked. 

Tom shrugged, “If you want me to leave, I will. But I politely request to sleep here tonight.” 

“Where?” Mr. Carson demanded, gesturing about, “We have no room.” 

“If you’re happy with the couch, you can sleep there.” Mrs. Hughes seemed desperate to make some semblance of peace in the late hour, too tired to fight, “But mark me it won’t be comfortable.” 

“I’ll manage.” Tom said. 

Mrs. Hughes fetched a duvet from the back Mr. Carson’s chair, handing it over to Tom. Thomas rose up, taking Moonpie with him, and watched as Tom shucked off his shoes and pulled hastily at his tie to relax against the spine of the couch. 

“I’ll allow it just this once.” Mr. Carson sounded exhausted by this point, raking fat fingers through his thinning gray hair, “Simply because it’s very late and I am very tired.” With that he moved off to the foot of the stairs, only to stop and turn back around with a fiery look upon his face. “You’ll stay on that couch, or God will be your judge!” He warned, a finger pointed vindictively at Tom. 

Tom raised up his hands in mock surrender, “I’m not moving!” He assured Mr. Carson. 

“The lavatory is at the top of the stairs if you wish to wash up.” Mrs. Hughes told him, giving him a tired smile as she left with Mr. Carson. She turned off each light that she passed, till suddenly the four of them were plunged into darkness that only the moon outside the lace curtains and the dimming fire in the hearth broke. Thomas could faintly see Tom’s silhouette. It tugged fiercely at his heart strings, begging him to stay and to sleep with Tom on the couch… to curl up with him and be at peace forever. 

But he couldn’t do that and he knew why. 

“Goodnight.” Tom said, and Mrs. Hughes and Mr. Carson began to make their way up the stairs. When Thomas did not immediately follow, Mr. Carson paused. 

“Thomas.” He said with clear authority, “Bed.” 

Thomas swayed from side to side, lightly rocking Moonpie against his chest. 

“…Goodnight, Tom.” Thomas whispered to him. “I love you.” 

“I love you too.” Tom said, with such solemn promise that it momentarily eased the ache in his heart. 

Thomas turned and walked up the stairs, the last to go up as Mr. Carson lead the way. 

 

That night Thomas found it impossible to sleep. Knowing that Tom was below him, so close yet so far, drove him insane and he tossed against his pillow till the moon was high in the sky. Mr. Carson’s consistent snoring was a calming white noise combined with Moonpie’s purring next to him, and Thomas’ eyes started to sag eventually… but even as he began to doze off, warm in his bed, he heard the softest sound from outside in the hallway. 

He opened his eyes and turned, only to sit up when his door opened an inch and a dark figure slid inside. 

There had been a time not too long ago when shadows in the night would have frightened him. Ghost, ghouls, goblins and demons… he would have imagined them all coming to hound him in the wee hours. But now, after Wakefield, Thomas didn’t fear the dead anymore: only the living and the pain they could inflict. 

Tom tip toed across the room, setting his shoes down next to Thomas’ bed and likewise laying his jacket over the footboard. He climbed into bed next to Thomas, shifting Moonpie aside, and the pair of them immediately began to curl up around one another as Thomas helped him to get under the covers and lay against the pillows. 

“…Carson…” Thomas whispered the name in Tom’s ear, afraid of what the man would say when he found them in the morning. 

Tom pulled him to his chest, gently kissing him first upon the forehead, then the cheeks, then the nose, and finally the lips. His breath was as sweet as sugar to Thomas… his lips like solidified honey. 

“Shh.” Tom’s reply was barely a breath upon the air, so soft and silent in the night. 

Thomas found it easy to fall asleep after that, curled safe in his lover’s wondrous arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please do not hesitate to leave any comments or concerns.


	24. Lagan Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The abbey has guests.   
> Thomas has dinner.  
> Tom has his greens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is the last official chapter. I have decided not to do an epilogue. There will be a sequel but I will not be posting it right away. Instead I want to work on other projects. I hope those that have enjoyed this fanfiction continue to enjoy the final chapter.

It was by fine luck that Elsie got up to use the lavatory first the next morning. 

Charles was having a difficult time rising that morning; his hands were shaky and his feet were cramped. Elsie’s obvious solution to both these problems was a warm bath with epsom salts, so she rose to make one for him while Charles attempted to rouse himself from bed. It was by these elements that she came upon Thomas’ slightly ajar bedroom door, and poked her head inside to see how he was sleeping. 

Thomas was fast asleep, curled up on his side with Tom behind him. Elsie sucked in the slightest breath, eyes widening; Tom Branson had somehow snuck up into Thomas’ room during the night (what was the surprise there) and now was so snug against Thomas’ back that the pair of them seemed to have merged into one element. Only one distinct feature could be seen between the pair of them: Tom’s arm slung over Thomas’ petite waist, holding him close. 

Elsie considered going in the room and dragging Tom out by his ear, but knew that if he did so Charles would catch wind of what was going on and bust a gasket. No, her husband’s bath needing drawing and Thomas needed his sleep (the poor lamb). The best thing to do was to close the door so that Charles could not see what lay beyond and pray that when Charles eventually did catch wind he would have enough time to calm down and see sense through his irritation. 

Elsie gently shut the door, effectively sealing Tom and Thomas inside. Moonpie was downstairs, no doubt waiting to be fed her morning dish. 

But first… Charles’ bath. 

 

Elsie boiled a pot of tea while Charles bathed, keeping one ear strained for the ceiling in case any ruckus should occur. She noted that Tom had had the good curtesy to fold up the duvet and clear the living room of his presence before heading upstairs last night. Moonpie was served a tuna paste which Thomas had bade Charles to grab from the house pantry for him. She ate with speed as if she hadn’t seen a meal in a year, and Elsie tutted as Moonpie spent a good fifteen minutes licking herself clean. Upstairs she heard Charles getting ready for work, sans the sound of screaming and shouting that would surely come from him opening Thomas’ bedroom door. When she heard Charles coming down the stairs she had already made him a thermos of black coffee laced with sugar and smiled as he appeared dressed in his livery. 

Charles immediately looked to the living room couch, and when he found it abandoned his eyes narrowed. Elsie distracted him with a gentle kiss. Charles returned it sweetly, rubbing the small of her back as he accepted her thermos of coffee. 

“Mr. Branson is no longer on the couch which is disturbing.” Charles muttered. Elsie gave him a gentle peck on the cheek. 

“He took a walk.” She tried to ignore the guilt that gnawed at her stomach, supplying that her mother had surely lied to her father several times during their marriage to keep children out of trouble. Why, she could recall a time when her mother had told her father a lie to save her behind! “I’m sure he’ll be back later to collect Thomas and the car.” 

They walked to the front door, and Elsie fetched Charles coat to put it lovingly around his shoulders. 

“One he can have, the other he cannot.” Charles grumbled. Elsie’s heart soared with delight at the tiny twitch of smile at the corner of Charles’ lips. To think… that Thomas was theirs! That Thomas was now their son, their joy, their responsibility. No other could have him… and Elsie’s heart felt like it would burst from the joy. 

“So I’ll tell him the car is ours now, shall I?” Elsie beemed. Charles chuckled, quirking a bushy brow at her. 

“I’m going to ring Mr. Murray today with his lordships permission.” Charles said. “We’ll get the paperwork started and have his name changed over to Carson.” At this, Charles paused, an incredulous smile slowly starting to itch its way across his face. 

“…Thomas Huxley Carson.” He finally declared, “It has a ring to it.” 

“His middle name is Nathaniel.” Elsie warned. 

“We can change that too.” Charles didn’t seem to care what Thomas would think. To be fair, Elsie doubted that he’d put up much of a fuss. 

“Have a good day, love.” Elsie said, opening the front door. Dawn was barely creeping over the horizon, illuminating Charles’ way to the abbey with a soft blue light. Lightning bugs were still creeping out, every so often popping flashes of bright yellow in the dawn. They shared one last tender kiss goodbye, sending small tendrils of warmth skittering into Elsie’s breast. 

“Let me know what Dr. Clarkson says about his stitches.” 

“I will.” 

Charles took a step out onto the lawn, noting the slight skid marks in the dirt at the base of Tom’s motorcar. He scowled, turning back around to point an irate finger at the machine, “And do not let Mr. Branson stay here another night!” He warned, “He has his own bed in the abbey, and he can jolly well use it!” 

But even as Charles scowled, he slowly began to smile again. 

“Thomas Huxley Carson.” Elsie declared with soft pride.   
By God, if Charles didn’t beam. 

~*~

As Carson made his way to work, blissfully unaware that he had been lied to by his loving wife, Thomas Barrow slowly awoke from a coma-like sleep that had rendered him sluggish and confused. He’d not slept so deep in ages, and wondered briefly if he was hallucinating when he rolled onto his back to find Tom Branson tucked up alongside him. 

What was Tom Branson doing in his bedroom? 

Careful not to wake him, Thomas gently sat up and tucked a stray lock of black hair behind his ears, reconstructing the events from last night. Tom had promised to stay on the couch on the threat that ‘God would be his judge’. Clearly Tom didn’t give a fig about God’s judgement because here he was the next morning, curled up like a cat at Thomas’ side. Speaking of cats, Moonpie was no where to be seen, but the door to the hallway was closed shut which meant that at some point during the night she had left and someone had closed the door after her. Thomas highly doubted Moonpie had somehow learned to shut a door in the succession of a single evening, and a thread of worry began to wrap itself around his heart, squeezing painfully till he felt almost staggered. 

If Carson or Mrs. Hughes had seen him… what would they think? Were they angry with him? Disappointed? Would they punish him? Thomas didn’t want to imagine what Carson might do should Thomas go against his wishes as his son. He suddenly had a very bizarre image of being a little boy and getting spanked over Carson’s knee. 

Oddly enough, his own biological father had never spanked him. For all the hitting that he had done, Thomas had never ended up being disciplined… only abused. 

Tom had awoken and stretched languidly before sitting up alongside Thomas. He leaned in, morning breath slightly stale but not unpleasant as he gently kissed Thomas’ cheek again and again. They stayed silent for a minute, listening to the chatter of birds outside and the far off keening of a blood hound being released by its master. 

Thomas turned, momentarily stunned by the beauty of Tom’s face in the morning. The light from beyond his lace curtained windows fell gently onto Tom’s forehead and cheeks, and Thomas could not help but lean in and taste the warmth he found there, ensnared by Tom’s other hand as he drew Thomas in close. Thomas pressed their foreheads lightly together, reveling in the lovely sensation of breathing the same air as Tom for the first time in months. 

The baying of the dog stopped. It had gotten its prize. 

“Did you leave anything downstairs?” Thomas whispered, unwilling to talk loudly and shatter the moment. 

“No.” Tom said, “I brought my shirts and shoes with me.”   
Sure enough both were at the foot of Thomas’ bed, with Tom’s outer jacket hanging over the footboard. 

“But the car is still out front.” Thomas said, certain that even Mr. Carson wouldn’t be fooled by the fact the motorcar hadn’t moved. 

“Mm.” Tom didn’t seem to worried. He seemed more enchanted by Thomas’ lips, and was now touching them with his thumb to gently part them. Tom’s finger was slightly salty, the bland taste of skin filling Thomas’ mouth as he delicately bit on Tom’s digit. Tom grinned, pulling his thumb away from Thomas’ teeth so that he could instead pluck at Thomas’ lower lip. 

“Pretty red lips.” Tom whispered. “Like cherries.” 

What utter nonsense.   
And yet how delightful. 

Thomas kissed Tom again, and might have continued on kissing as was his pleasure to do had he not heard the far off singing of one Elsie Hughes. Thomas’ paused mid kiss, listening intently as Tom took control of their passions and began to pepper Thomas’ neck and earlobe with tiny nibbles. 

“…She’s outside.” Thomas whispered, “She had to have passed by our door. She must know you’re in here.” 

“Maybe.” Tom conceded, his mouth full of Thomas’ neck, “But I doubt it’ll come to much. She loves you.” 

Still, Thomas wanted to be sure. 

It was with great reluctance that he rose from bed, leaving Tom behind as he pulled on a bathrobe to hide his pajamas and headed downstairs. Tom groaned, curling back in bed, clearly too lazy this early in the morning to go through the bother of dressing or behaving like a human being. 

Thomas hit the first floor, only to find Moonpie sitting on the back of the couch in a warm spot where the sun was streaming through the curtains. The light made the tips of her hair appear pink, and a slight dribble of drool was coming down from her fangs. 

The back door to the kitchen was open, and a chipped pink coffee mug sat upon the countertop revealing a brew of earl gray. Thomas carefully opened the back door to find Mrs. Hughes once again tending to her back garden, wearing a dirtied apron patched in earth and a pair of gardening gloves as she plucked up weeds and deposited them into an empty egg crate. As she worked, she sang, and seemed mindless of her onlooker. 

_“Oh soldier, oh soldier will you marry me? O no, my sweet lady that never can be, For I’ve got a wife at home in my own country… Two wives and the army’s too many for me.”_ She paused with a smirk upon her lips, crouching with dirty hands upon her knees as she turned and glanced up at Thomas in her doorway. A crisp wind slightly chilled his bare feet and neck. Thomas shivered, pulling his blue bathroom closer to his skin. 

“Are we up at last?” She said, rising up and taking off her dirty garden gloves to put them in the pocket of her apron. She put her hands on her hips, smiling as a cool spring wind blew her tousled gray hair. She’d pinned it up beneath a straw brimmed hat, and seemed very at home in her green setting. 

“Yes.” Thomas paused, cautious lest he stumble into a chastising “I’m sorry I slept in.” 

“I reckon you needed the rest.” She decided, gesturing to the kitchen door where he stood, “Make yourself a cup of coffee then, I’ve some errands to run in the village and I want you to come with me. We can see Dr. Clarkson while we’re there.” She paused, a coy smile upon her face, “If Tom is going to hang around, we can use his car.” 

“…About that.” Thomas said, but fell silent as Mrs. Hughes folded her arms in front of her chest and quirked an eyebrow. 

Caught. 

“Your father- that is to say, Mr. Carson- does not know Tom was asleep in your bed this morning, but mark me Thomas.” She warned, a finger up in the air, “I will not lie to my husband again. So please, let’s try to keep those moments to a minimum. Last night was a special circumstance.” 

To hear Carson be called his father sent an oddly pleasant jolt in his stomach as he realized that Mrs. Hughes was not angry at him or Tom, and was instead willing to keep the peace. The string around his heart relaxed considerably. 

He decided to reward her in his own odd little way, smiling just a little if only to look demure as he bowed his head. 

“I’m sorry, Mum.” He said in a soft voice, causing her to stop mid-stoop as she made to fetch her egg crate full of plucked weeds. “I didn’t mean to misbehave.” 

“Oh, don’t you dare.” she warned, grabbed the egg cart and flinging it one and all over her back fence so that it crashed in a broken heap on the other side in a briar. She turned back to Thomas, wiping her hands on her apron only to reach up and touch his chin between her pinched thumb and pointer finger so that he suddenly began to grin, “Don’t you butter me up like that.” 

“I’m really really sorry Mum.” Thomas just carried on, his voice as gentle as a lamb. For shame, he out to be flogged, “I promise I won’t do it again-“ 

“You stop that now!” She cried out, but she was beaming and there was a flush on her cheeks. Thomas caught her eyes and saw they were full of a merry twinkle. 

He swooped down and kissed her upon the cheek. She made a gay noise, pushing lightly at his chest so that he’d step aside and let her through the back door. He watched her, smirking as she took off her dirty apron and finished her cup of tea, resuming her song with a lilt to her hum. 

There was nothing he liked more than making Mrs. Hughes happy. 

~*~

As soon as Tom managed to pry himself off the mattress and put on a pair of Thomas’ clothes, the trio found themselves in the Crawley motorcar on their way to the village. A half hour walk was now reduced to a ten minute drive, and Mrs. Hughes hummed in the wind as she sat in the backseat. Tom was her self professed chauffeur, having helped her into the car with as much flare and grace as one would expect for a duchess or countess. Now speeding along down a quiet country lane, Tom sat with his arm outstretched over the back of the front seat so that he and Thomas were once again hip to hip. 

Thomas took a deep breath of fresh country air, likening it to perfume after the stench of Wakefield. 

“Th’ whole family is in an uproar.” Tom assured him, having to talk loud so as to be heard over the wind, “Gray tried to make a scandal out of you gettin’ imprisoned. He even attempted to have something’ published in the paper.” 

“He what?!” Thomas’ heart leapt. 

“Don’t worry!” Tom calmed him at once, squeezing his shoulder tenderly, “His father and Lord Grantham showed him off, kept him quiet under threat of slander.” Tom scoffed, turning onto the main road that would take them into the village proper, “If he wasn’t disowned before, he is now. Turns out he’s done this loads of items, made trouble for other families… the man hasn’t got a friend in the world right now!” 

“Serves him right!” Mrs. Hughes spoke up from the back seat. 

“An’ the Dowager was furious.” Tom added, just for show. “You know how she hates for the family to be a topic of scandal.” 

“Don’t we all.” Thomas sighed, reaching up to scratch a bit at the side of his face where his stitches itched. Behind him, Mrs. Hughes reached out of no where to flick at his hand where he touched his mouth, forcing him to stop. 

“Stop picking at your stitches!” She warned him, “Or you won’t be able to get them out today.” 

Thomas tried to surreptitiously raise his opposite hand so that Mrs. Hughes could not see from behind, gently picking at his stitched with only one finger while he kept his elbow pressed to his belly button— 

“I see that!” 

He dropped his hand, scowling. 

“Fact of the matter is, the family is on our side.” Tom said, “Particularly Mary and Henry. Edith and Bertie too… the four of them are glad that you’re home safe. They want peace. Robert and Cora might need a longer time to come around but by god I think we’re making progress.” 

“And the Dowager?” 

“She’ll be dead soon anyways.” Tom said. From behind Mrs. Hughes reached up and smacked him on the back of the head. He winced, grabbing at his stinging ear. “Sorry!” He cried out, knowing he’d overstepped a line. 

 

They traveled into the village and found it rather quiet. Apparently there was a cricket match outside of town (the first game of the season) and everyone was determined to go. Thomas wondered if a few servants from Downton would be there, or perhaps Lord Grantham (who had always adored cricket); he even wished he could go himself, save that he still felt mildly exhausted and didn’t want to spoil the rest of his day. 

Downton Hospital was all but deserted, save for two in-patients that were recovering from surgery and sleeping peacefully in the medical wing. Thomas waited out in the hall with Tom and Mrs. Hughes till he was called back by a plump nurse, and followed her around the corner to Clarkson’s private office where the door was thrown open and held back by a few books as an impromptu door stopper. Clarkson was on the other side, apparently airing out his office with both windows flung up wide and a few shelves of his personal library cleared away so that specks of dust floated in the air. It was incredible, to see the man on the other side of Wakefield, and remember how he’d so jipped the prison guards into thinking he and Thomas were strangers. When Thomas had been taking orders from Dr. Clarkson, he’d been a Major, and not very happy at being followed around by a young ‘whipper snapper’. Now Thomas found himself respecting the doctor, simply because had it not been for his hard work, Thomas would (in all likelihood) be talking to a harvest mouse and drinking bone marrow soup.

Dr. Clarkson took care of Thomas in his office, merely having to snip the stitches and pull them free with a pair of tweezers and sharp scissors. With each stitch that came loose, Thomas felt the strangest sensation glide through his skin. He was greatly relieved when the work was done, and immediately snatched the hand mirror Dr. Clarkson offered so as to better see his face. 

“There we are.” Clarkson, said, setting down his tweezers and scissors atop a surgical plate. “All done.” 

His skin was a soft pearly pink, just the slightest shade darker than his original flesh tone. It was obvious that he was scarred, but not glaringly so, and Thomas felt a significant decrease in anxiety as he realized that he would not look like some type of marine invertebrate turned inside out. It was unfortunate, but it wasn’t the end of the world… and Thomas could live with it. 

It was still very irritating though. 

“So will he improve?” Mrs. Hughes asked, tilting his chin with her fingers so that she could better see his scarring in the light. 

“I have some creams I can offer, but in all likelihood he will always have some scarring.” Dr. Clarkson said, going to his desk to flip through a small yellow notepad. He began to write something down, most likely a prescription. 

“I was afraid you’d say that.” Mrs. Hughes tutted. She stroked his scars with his thumb, touching at the corners. 

“We can at least reduce the redness and the swelling. It’ll depend on time.” Dr. Clarkson said. He tore off the prescription and handed it to Mrs. Hughes who took it and folded it up in her purse, “This is a prescription for Erasmic. You can get if filled at the pharmacy on Main.” 

“Will it always look so large at the corners?” Mrs. Hughes was still touching his scars, clearly displeased. 

“Again, that’ll all depend on time. Even three months from now, he could look completely different. It’ll depend on how his body heals. Given his hand, I’d say he stands a fair chance.” 

Tom was relaxing on the back of Thomas’ chair, looking down onto him as Mrs. Hughes stood at his front. Where Mrs. Hughes seemed overly concerned with the superficial scarring of Thomas’ face, Tom just seemed glad to have the stitches out. 

“Use the Erasmic on you scars, twice a day.” Dr. Clarkson ordered. Thomas wasn’t looking, too obsessed with staring at his own reflection. When had he gotten so old? He had lines under his eyes and at the signs of his mouth (not including his scars). There was gray in his hair to boot. “Do not ingest it. If you do, drink milk with a bit of cinnamon, and call me.” 

“Thank you, Dr. Clarkson.” Thomas said absently, turning his head left and right. He was suddenly caught with the bizarre reflection of Mrs. Hughes’ fingers upon his chin. Her digits were slim and soft, slightly veined and wrinkly. Utterly beautiful in their own way… 

“Don’t worry, Thomas.” Dr. Clarkson took away the hand mirror, setting it back upon his desk. Thomas rose from the chair, feeling at his face with his own fingers. God, his scars felt huge. “Some day this will all be a distant if not slightly painful memory.” 

“Slightly?” Thomas muttered, shrugging back on his jacket. Tom offered him the flannel scarf that he kept with him always now. 

“You’re strong." Dr. Clarkson assured him, “You’ll do well.” 

It felt so odd, to stand in Dr. Clarkson’s office where it was clean and bright, safe and warm. Could it be that weeks ago he’d been in Wakefield? That he’d be in shackles, maddened by ghosts in his mind? How had he gotten here in this room? Surrounded by these people? Was he truly safe or was he merely in a blip between miseries? 

“Thank you for seeing us on such short notice.” Tom shook Dr. Clarkson’s hand. 

“Not at all, Mr. Branson.” Dr. Clarkson paused, a sudden realization coming over him as he looked from Tom to Thomas. It wasn’t that Clarkson was in the dark about their relationship; indeed Thomas had a feeling that he’d known when he’d come to Wakefield. Maybe seeing it outside of a prison setting, however, was causing Dr. Clarkson to become more thoughtful. To give it more merit. “I’m sorry that it ever had to come to this.” Dr. Clarkson said, “Call me if you have any trouble Thomas, but I don’t think you will.” 

Mrs. Hughes went out into the village after that, taking an enormous wicker basket with her to do some shopping. Torn between going with her or talking a walk, Thomas decided to go around the perimeter of the hospital with Tom. It was a quiet overcast day out, nothing more to write home for, but Thomas found it relaxing. No one was on the hospital grounds; everyone was out of town watching cricket. There was a soft shifting in the air, wind and birds and motorcars far off. It was pleasant to listen to. Tom kept his distance (he had to in public) but the pair of them were still able to walk side by side without too much discomfort. 

“Does it itch anymore?” Tom asked. Thomas felt his face where the stitches had once been. 

“No.” Thomas was pleased. God how he’d hated that itching. 

They sort of split back and forth, wandering through gravestones of patients long past. Hospital graveyards were strange places to be. Most people wanted to be buried in their family plot, near their church and their homes. People buried at hospitals were shifters, strangers… the homeless and the destitute. Those without plots or families to return home to at the end of their life. Most of the crosses didn’t even have names. There were just white slats of marble, paid for by donations and charities run through Mrs. Crawley and the Dowager. 

“Where would you like to be buried?” Tom spoke up from across the graveyard; he was staring at a cross that Thomas knew for a fact belonged to a local prostitute that had died of eclampsia. She’d been buried a week before Edward, her infant given to an orphanage. 

“ I can’t be.” Thomas said, passing by cross after cross. 

“Mmm?” 

“Men like me-“ 

“Like us-“ Tom corrected him; to be fair there had been mutual compliance in their sodomy. 

“Well, we can’t be buried in a proper graveyard.” Thomas tried to imagine a world where homosexuals were included in a graveyard along with the rest of society. It just didn’t seem plausible, “The church won’t allow it. I’m unsure where I’ll rot.” He trailed his hands over passing briar bushes. They were neatly trimmed by a groundskeeper, but every so often a bramble came through to snag at clothing and hair. He wondered briefly where he would have been lain had his original suicide attempt been successful. On the far back of the Crawley estate, there was a plot designated to servants from ages back. Some of the headstones went into the sixteenth century… but the family didn’t use that plot anymore. Thomas had a feeling that if he’d died he would have ended up in this very same graveyard. 

“I’ve made arrangements to lay near Sybil when I go.” Tom admitted, pausing to reflect on a particularly well trimmed flower bush. He picked a bud or two, smelling them before putting them in his buttonhole. The pop of white went well with his suit. “Course, what to do about us.” Tom wondered, “Maybe you could be cremated?” He threw over his shoulder, “They can hardly pick a fuss about an urn, can they?” 

But Thomas wasn’t listening. 

Tom glanced over his shoulder when Thomas did not immediately quip back. The sight of Thomas stopped before a white cross at the corner of the graveyard gave Tom pause, everything about Thomas’ profile given him caution as Thomas’ hair and coat blew slightly in the April wind. 

Tom abandoned his own winding path, making his way back and forth through lines of unmarked headstones to finally come to Thomas’ side. 

Thomas was unmoving, unshifting. For him, the universe ended at this white little cross. For him, the thread of life began to split here, unwinding and fraying apart to all sorts of specters could merge across. Tom of course had no way of knowing just who was in this little grave plot. 

Or maybe he did. 

“It’s funny.” Thomas whispered, eyes capturing the tiny details of Edward’s lone cross; the way crab grass was desperately crawling up one side, “All that time I wanted to talk to Edward, and yet I never came here.” He supposed he’d had some excuse or another at the time. But really… how peaceful it would have been at the time. To lay beneath the sky, side by side with Edward. 

He’d been in love with Jimmy, but Edward had been in love with him… and for Thomas Barrow, that was an incredibly rare experience. To be the centre of someone’s desire. To be the light in someone’s darkness. One touch on his knee had given him more strength than all the times he’d placed his hands on Jimmy’s shoulders. 

“I remember once, he put his hand on my knee.” Thomas spoke up. He closed his eyes, blind to the way that Tom turned and looked at him adoringly. “He was blind so he had to grope a bit, but he put his hand on my knee… and he squeezed me like he never wanted to let go.” 

“That was very brave of him.” Tom said softly. “What did you do?” 

Thomas smiled, a soft wind shifting through his hair. With his eyes closed, he was captivated by the sound of rustling leaves. It was almost like Edward was standing on his left side. Like Edward was right behind him, watching over him where before he’d been a dark specter haunting his nights. 

_This_ was the Edward he remembered.   
_This_ was the Edward he’d known. 

“I held his hand.” Thomas answered with a smile. 

For a moment Tom said nothing, absolutely captivated by Thomas’ image. Thomas would never know it, but in that second Tom found all the breath sucked from his chest for the sheer beauty he found in Thomas Barrow. 

The way his eyelash painted the tops of his cheeks. The bluish tint to his hair, where the sun caught stray strands. The cream of his skin, splashed only faintly with pink upon his lips and the tip of his nose. 

“I love you.” Tom said softly. Thomas opened his eyes again, blinking them dazedly in the garish overcast light. He looked at Tom, and quirked the sides of his mouth up a bit so that his face was graced with the tiniest and sweetest of smiles. 

“I love you.” Thomas said, just as quietly lest they be overhead. 

Tom’s heart sank into a warmth that made him feel utterly at peace. He’d not known such calm and contentment in his soul since Sybil had passed, and for him it only cemented that this moment was meant to be. That for whatever reason, he was just as bound to Thomas as he’d been to Sybil. Maybe it was because all three of them were rebels at heart, rebels with a pure and just cause. Maybe their fight against the universe was their beating drive that pushed them together. Maybe it was more than that. Maybe it went past what words could define and simply became a mesh of what was familiar and good. Maybe people gravitated towards what they wanted in themselves, and therefor produced more of the things that made them happy. 

Whether it was divine intervention or sheer genealogy, Tom didn’t care.   
He was just happy he’d found a soul mate. Again. 

~*~

After that day in the village, Tom had to return to the house. Every morning after breakfast he’d dress and head out for the day, walking first to his office to finish up some daily paperwork before heading back into the countryside towards the Carson’s cottage. When he got there, Thomas was almost always outside, either sitting in the backyard and sketching or doing something about the house. Tom didn’t like him stretching himself too thin- he was already exhausted from the strain of Wakefield and the rehabilitation into normal life. To make up for Thomas’ waning strength, Tom would shuck his vest and coat to do most of the manual labor so that Thomas was merely instructing him on what to do. 

To be fair, Tom had re-shingled a roof before… but he rather liked Thomas bossing him around. One of his more delightful fantasies had involved Thomas bossing him in bed, maybe using that sharp voice he got with the day maids. He’d snap and point his fingers in Tom’s face- maybe order him to suck his toes— _what?_

Jesus, Tom really needed to get a grip on his imagination. 

Three days after having his stitches removed, Thomas sat atop the roof of the Carson’s cottage, straddling the top of the house with a bucket of rotten shingles between his legs. Tom had the maul and nail, tossing broken and rotted pieces to Thomas so that Thomas could hand him new shingles back. The pair of them made a rather effective team, taking each area of the Carson’s roof in stride so that by tonight they would be completely finished. 

The Carson’s were getting ready for a trip, and had spent the better part of the morning loading up a neighbors obliging wagonette with their valises and food. Apparently their hotel, on the other side of Merton county, was in need of spring sprucing and the pair of them wanted to give it a personal touch. With Thomas soon to be reinstated as butler, the hotel was their project and second child. Thomas was still incredibly nervous about returning to the abbey, so Moseley was apparently taking over for the night while Mr. Carson was away. The idea of Moseley running the abbey was a little worrisome, given that the last time that he’d been put up to the task he’d drunk himself silly while the rest of the house had contracted Spanish Flue.

The Erasmic cream that Dr. Clarkson had ordered was vile, speaking broadly. It had a sort of… minty under taste that turned acrid quite fast, and placed so closely near the mouth made Thomas wince constantly. After a day of Thomas scowling without meaning to, Mrs. Hughes had popped back into the pharmacists to fetch a rather standard facial cream. She’d returned, and the Erasmic had been set aside for the cheaper off brand that didn’t feature the acrid side effects. Thomas was quite happy, and had even started to use it on his arms and wrists. 

On a slightly sour note, the past two days had come to reveal that many of Tom’s future plans would have to be put aside. 

Before Wakefield, it had been Tom’s intention that he and Thomas would buy a small farming estate and run it as a sort of nest egg. It would have been a place of security and comfort, but those plans were now dashed for sauce with half the country watching the displaced Grey heir spit shit about the Crawley family. No one believed him, of course… but that wasn’t the point. The point was the little bitch had gone and ruined Tom’s life twice now, and by god if he ever got the chance he was going to put his boot right up Larry Gray’s tight arse. 

“The family won’t let me bid on the farm.” Tom said through a mouth full of nails as he passed Thomas a rotten plank. Thomas took it, handing over a fresh one so that Tom could begin hammering again. He had to be careful with his fingers. “Said it’s too dangerous. too public.” 

“Maybe they’re right.” Thomas said forlornly. He looked off into the distance where the top most spires of the abbey could still be seen. Even in the far country, it dominated the skyline. “It was a beautiful dream, but it was never meant to be ours.” 

Tom didn’t like to think like that, “One day we’ll have our own place.” Tom assured him, hammering in a new shingle, “We just have to wait until the sea has calmed.” 

“I’m not afraid. Are you?” Thomas gave him a tiny coy smile. 

This was what moved Tom about Thomas Barrow. Jesus christ, the man had lifted his entire life under the thumb of persecution, had been treated ill by everyone close to him, had been thrown to the wolves for love, had been pushed to the point of suicide, had been driven from his only known place of refuge by a supposed friend, and had been arrested and sentenced to solitary confinement… but still was unafraid. 

Did he even realize how brave he was? Tom had decided to make it a goal that at some point during his life, he would prove to Thomas just how rare and special he was. 

“Nah.” Tom assured him. Thomas stuck out his tongue playfully and passed him another piece of cured wood. 

Down below, the sound of a closing door caught both of their attentions. It seemed the Carson’s were about to depart. Thomas crawled to the edge of rooftop, sending nervous jitters through Tom’s body as he noted how precariously close to the rotten lining his was. One wrong move and Thomas would fall from the roof. Determined to keep him safe, Tom abandoned his maul and nails to instead reach out and grab Thomas by the belt loop like a secure hook line. With his other hand, he grabbed at the edge of the chimney. Should Thomas fall, Tom would go with him… and half of the roof. 

The Carson’s were dressed in their Sunday best, delighted to start the next chapter of their lives together. Mrs. Hughes wore her angel brooch and her navy pleated skirt, with a navy cloche and a peach blouse. She tilted her head up to the sky, hiding her view with the hand so as not to be overcome by the sun’s glare. She waved up to Thomas, smiling sweetly. 

“Thomas, come down here!” She urged, pointing to the ladder by which they’d crawled up, “I want to talk to you before I leave.” 

Thomas did as she bade at once, and Tom let go of his belt loop so that Thomas could go back down the ladder. He followed suit just as Mr. Carson closed the front door, watching at Carson dabbed at his forehead where a bead of sweat was beginning to appear before pocketing his handkerchief. The mule that they’d borrowed from a friendly neighbor was beginning to whine, clearly eager to get on with their journey and back to fresh hay. 

“Are you nearly done?” Carson asked Thomas. 

“Just the last corner to finish off, then we’ll be finished sir.” Thomas declared. Carson looked quite pleased. 

“Good.” He said, pulling at the cuffs of his day suit to make sure his arms were without creases. “I want that roof finished before we come back. We’ll be gone tonight but we’ll be back around noon tomorrow, so you’re on your own for dinner. You’re more than welcome to go back up to the abbey- indeed I would prefer it since for the moment Mr. Moseley is having to step back in as help for the staff.” 

This, to Tom, seemed like the perfect opportunity to get back to the abbey. Sybbie was close to having a nervous breakdown, thinking Thomas in prison or on the lam. Though Thomas might not know it, Sybbie often considered him another parent, particularly now that he and Tom were together romantically. The sooner Sybbie saw Thomas, the better. It would calm her, ground her, and bring the house back to normal (finally) 

“We could go up together!” Tom offered. For some reason, neither Mrs. Hughes or Mr. Carson seemed to feel that this was a pleasant idea despite it being originally what Mr. Carson had wanted. By god the man was finicky! “You could oversee dinner tonight!” 

“…I don’t think that would be such a good idea.” Thomas murmured, his head bowed reproachfully. 

“We’ll talk it over.” Tom decided. Thomas merely shrugged, a silent indication that there was much he wanted to say but nothing in front of the Carsons. Tom understood. 

“Be good.” Mrs. Hughes bade Thomas, giving him a sweet kiss on the cheek in parting, “And don’t feed Moonpie anymore tonight! She’ll have a stomach ache.” 

Thomas put his hand behind his back, and Tom watched as he crossed his fingers. “I promise I won’t.” He said. 

Tom wasn’t the only one who’d gotten a peek. Mr. Carson reached about and took Thomas’ hand from behind his back, revealing his crossed fingers to Mrs. Hughes who scowled. 

“If I didn’t have to get on the road, I’d scold you.” But Tom had a feeling that Mrs. Hughes wouldn’t scold Thomas if someone paid her to.” But even as Mrs. Hughes was helped up into the wagonette by Mr. Carson, she called Tom over, “Mr. Branson-!” 

Tom came to her side, watching as Mr. Carson carefully tied the back end of the wagonette so that the gate wouldn’t flop open halfway to home. Mrs. Hughes was rifling through her handbag, “I was wondering if you could do something for me?” 

“Certainly.” Tom assured her. Mrs. Hughes smiled, looked over her shoulder to where Thomas was being bossed about by Mr. Carson, then leaned in. 

“Don’t… do anything… I wouldn’t want you to do.” Mrs. Hughes spoke each word carefully, “While we’re away.” 

Tom leaned against the side of the wagonette, eyes watching Thomas as he waffled back and forth while Mr. Carson questioned him about some odd thing or another. Probably Moonpie. 

“Do you understand?” Mrs. Hughes murmured in his ear.   
Tom nodded, his imagination kicking into overdrive as he thought of all the things Mrs. Hughes might be implying. 

Thomas naked, in his bed.   
Thomas naked, stretched out on the couch.   
Thomas naked, splayed upon the kitchen table… the finest dish Tom would ever eat. 

“I do.” Tom spoke up, realizing he’d been quiet for quite some time. 

“Good.” Mrs. Hughes smiled, straightening back up on her seat. She waved to Mr. Carson, beckoning him off the stoop and to the wagonette. He lumbered over, causing the whole wagonette to shift as he climbed aboard and took the reigns of the mule. 

Thomas waved them off. Tom joined him on the porch, watching as the mule drove away up the road. Now the pair of them were left alone, feeling oddly like children free from their parents as Tom nudged Thomas in the shoulder. 

“What did Mrs. Hughes have to say?” Thomas asked. 

“Wants me to behave good.” Tom grinned, “I’m a naughty boy, what can I say?” He shrugged. 

Thomas rolled his eyes. “That’s putting it mildly.” 

“Look, let’s finish up with the roof and go up to the abbey.” Tom urged. Thomas started to grow reclusive again, folding his arms over his chest and tucking his chin as he stared up the road after the Carson’s retreating wagonette. 

“…No, I think I’ll stay here.” Thomas turned back to the ladder, as if to start scaling it again. But Tom threw caution to the wind, refusing to let Thomas hide; he grabbed Thomas by the waist and pulled him back in, wrapping his arms around Thomas from behind. 

Thomas blinked, taken aback. 

“And abandon Moseley?” Tom murmured in his ear, swapping over from one side of Thomas’ head to the next so that he could kiss his neck. Thomas shifted back, nervous and looking about as if expecting a puma to jump out from the wood. “No one’s watching.” Tom whispered in his ear, “We’re safe. We’re fine.” 

But Thomas didn’t seem to believe it. He gently pried himself away from Tom’s arms, seeming to want to get back inside. He was frightened, unsure of himself. Tom would help him to remember his courage. 

“We’re fine.” Tom repeated again, holding Thomas close. “No one’s looking. Relax.” 

“But… What if…” Thomas looked about. When he found no one waiting in the bushes or woods, he fell silent again. 

“Listen to my voice.” Tom murmured in his ear. “Listen to the sound of the world around us.”   
The pair of them went quiet, and were consumed by the sound of wind blowing through the trees. It was soft, gentle, and punctuated only by the far off calls of birds. 

They were completely alone. 

“See?” Tom whispered in his ear. “Let’s go up to the abbey and see everyone. The children are missing you.” 

Thomas shifted in Tom’s arms, unsure. 

“And when my face makes the children cry?” Thomas whispered. 

“I’ll be there with you.” Tom said, internally registering that should the children actually start to cry it would be not only Tom but Mary and Henry to contend with them as well. The situation could be handled. Thomas was (once again) assuming responsibility for the entire situation. He kept on forgetting that the children had parents… that the parents could help out to. Tom kissed Thomas gently on the side of the head. 

Thomas let out a tiny groan. 

~*~

In reality the drive to Downton Abbey took about ten minutes, but to Thomas if felt about a second before the spires turned into a full out mansion dominating the skyline. Tom’s car cruised up the gravel road, which was now slowly starting to become overrun with wildflowers. The gardener would be by any day now to pick them in rounds with his help. Spring meant trips to London for the season, and cleaning for the maids that remained behind. Spring was the time of rebirth, of baby birds shitting all over the lawn and squirrels getting run over in the road. 

Spring, and here Thomas was miserable. 

He wished he could live his life as he had before, without fear. I mean to say- granted he’d always been afraid of arrest or asylum, but now he was afraid of the people around him… and that didn’t set right by him. Before, he’d been self-righteous. Sharp. Hard balled… and while it had built a wall six feet thick around him, it had also kept him safe from fear. That wall was essentially obliterated now, thanks to such nancy things as communications and emotional honesty. Fuck it all, Thomas wished he was bathed in concrete if only to keep the demons out. 

“So here’s what we’ll do.” Tom declared as he drove up the driveway, “We’ll go to the house, talk with the staff, talk with the family, have dinner, then go home. Sound good?” 

Thomas shrugged, watching the red and blue flag flutter in the breeze high up above. 

“Don’t be afraid, Thomas!” Tom pumped a fist in charismatic charge, “You’re not walking into a hornet’s nest. People are concerned about you! They want to see you!” 

Thomas doubted this very much. 

“Baxter’s been up in arms, Daisy’s ready to start a war— I can’t hold off Sybbie and George for much longer.” 

“But they don’t know about my face.” Thomas murmured, sensing dread ahead. 

“No.” Tom pursed his lips as if caught, “No they don’t.” 

Thomas ran a hand over his mouth, feeling at the scars on its edges, “I don’t want to see the children.” He decided. Not until he could control the variables and look less like a psychopath. 

“Thomas, the children are desperate to see you!” Tom said. 

“I don’t care.” Thomas tried to feign ignorance, tried to remain aloof, but his days of hiding behind a concrete shield were over. Tom looked over at him, and with one warm glance Thomas was done for, sighing deeply as Tom ran a hand idly through his hair. 

“Yes you do.” Tom murmured, “You love the children.” 

“If they see me, and they start crying…” Thomas couldn’t even fathom the humiliation and heartbreak of it all, “I’ll die. It’ll kill me.” 

“I know.” Tom wouldn’t hide from the facts, and Thomas appreciated that, “But we’ll have to handle it.” He continued stroking Thomas’ hair as they drove. “Sooner or later they’re going to have to see. We’ll work with it.” 

As Tom swung around the front of the abbey, Thomas felt himself sinking lower and lower into the passenger seat. Tom shut off the car, gave him a sweet smile, and got out only to come around the car and open the door for Thomas. It was like he was a chauffeur again. Thomas did not appreciate the sensation, getting out of car stiffly and going around it’s opposite side without being bid to so that he was staring out over the lawn and not at the house. He hadn’t seen this view in nearly two months. The last time that he’d been in the driveway, he’d been… well… 

He’d been shoved into the back of a police car. 

Thomas crumpled, a hand to his mouth. Tom was at his side at once. 

“Too much?” Tom sensed, carefully rubbing Thomas’ back with an arm tight around his shoulders. 

“The last time I was standing here I was being arrested.” Thomas shakily wiped a few stray tears from the corners of his eyes before they had a chance to fall. How he hated being so damn weak! “I can’t help but remember it.” 

“But you’re free now.” Tom murmured in his ear, “Free, and no one can say otherwise. You’re free and safe. See how blue the sky is?” 

It was an odd comment, but Tom was right. Thomas stared up at the sky, noting the overcast clouds had all vanished in the afternoon sun. The sky was just as blue as it had been on the day that Thomas had first attempted suicide, and he wondered up at it. 

“You’re free.” Tom repeated. Thomas wondered if that was why the sky was blue.   
Maybe the universe knew something he did not. 

The front door to the abbey was opened, and out came Andy of all people. When he saw Thomas leaning against the car, Andy tripped over the steps down to the gravel and nearly fell on his face. He stumbled upright, and came around the car, gaping like a fish out of air as Tom folded his arms over his chest and gave Andy a grim smile. 

“Mr. Branson!” Andy stuttered, looking from Tom to Thomas. 

“Andy.” Tom said, but Andy’s attention was solely on Thomas now, and who could blame him. 

Everyone in the abbey knew what Thomas was, knew that it was illegal, and though Thomas was unaware of it most had taken a solid silent vow never to mention it to the police. It was too much scandal, too much danger, and while Thomas over the years had been everything from a pest to a bully he was also susceptible to loss and weakness. Fear. Despite being a pain in the ass, no one had ever wanted him to suffer under the thumb of the law. 

At least, not for that. 

But now he had, and now everyone had to face up to what that meant. The stigma, the terror, the sheer ominous atmosphere that would float around after Thomas. It was the same thing that Bates had endured when he’d returned home. Now Thomas was feeling that same biting nausea come over him, and pulled away from the car, putting a hand to his mouth. 

“Excuse me.” He said to no one in particular, and walked off. 

“Hey, Thomas- woah- woah!” 

Thomas walked aimlessly through the grass, feeling like he might throw up at any moment. He found himself drifting towards the ancient willow, underneath whose branches Tom and Thomas had often hid. Now, Thomas found himself hiding for a completely different reason, though he didn’t make it far. 

Thomas found the trunk of the tree, took two enormous breathes, and vomited. It felt like his entire body was being purged in his mouth, and he shook from the force of it, leaning against the tree. Tom was behind him, his hand on Thomas’ back, rubbing repeatedly between his shoulder blades. Thomas threw up two more times before officially hitting empty. He shuddered, dry heaving until even that stopped… and gasped for air. 

“Easy.” Tom whispered in his ear. “Easy.” He kept rubbing Thomas’ back till Thomas found it easier to breath and stand up straight. 

Bitter, exhausted, Thomas jerked his handkerchief out of his breast pocket and wiped aggressively at his mouth. He took another deep breath, leaning hard against the tree and trying not to think about the fact that Tom had just seen him vomit. Talk about a lack of romance. 

“Jesus shit.” Thomas cursed into the bark. “I want to go home.” 

“Thomas.” Tom reminded him gently, “You are home.” 

Damn. 

“Look, let’s take a walk.” Tom murmured in his ear. “Let’s head back to the front door. Take it slow and easy… we can talk along the way.” 

“Tom!” 

The sounds of a woman calling out caught Tom’s attention, and he looked over his shoulder. Thomas leaned aggressively into the bark; he knew that voice, he was already aware of who it was… Lady Mary had no doubt seen Tom’s car in the driveway. Maybe she’d even assumed what that had meant, maybe she just wanted to see Tom. Either way, here was Thomas, hanging over the side of a tree trunk dry heaving. 

“Mary,” Tom sounded just slightly concerned, a hand still on Thomas’ back. 

“Are you alright?” Lady Mary was clearly talking to Thomas, which was slightly confusing because Thomas was her servant and therefore only to be addressed on the barest of terms for such things as tea or crumpets. Now she was asking him if he was ‘alright’ after fifteen years of service, just because he’d puked on a tree. 

My how the world changed. 

Thomas stuck out a hand, momentarily wondering if he could just wave her off. Tom was making some weird movement over his shoulder. Thomas couldn’t see what it was. 

“…Is it all too much?” Lady Mary asked, her voice more soft than usual. Whatever Tom was doing over Thomas’ shoulder, he stopped. 

Thomas swished saliva about his mouth, trying to get rid of the acrid taste. He knew it was disgraceful and unbecoming, but Thomas could not help himself. He spit out the aftertaste onto the tree trunk, taking a deep breath out his mouth so as to calm his erratic heartbeat. 

“Bit.” Was all Thomas managed to say. 

Lady Mary took a step closer. A large gust of wind caused the hanging tendrils of the willow tree to sway erratically around the three of them. 

“Barrow— Thomas-“ Lady Mary corrected herself cautiously, “We’re so glad to see you returned to us.” Thomas licked his lips, noting the change in name. He tried to not read too much into it, but his emotions were weak and it was hard. 

Thomas looked over his shoulder, and found Lady Mary with a most concerned look upon her face. Her hair was blowing in the wind, so that dark brown strands were cutting across the pale ivory of her face. Her eyes seemed so very round to Thomas… rounder than they’d ever been before. She was staring at him imploringly, as if hoping he’d do or say something to bring peace back to the situation. Thomas didn’t even know if that sort of power was in his hands anymore, but Lady Mary just seemed to be hoping that he was flat out ok. That he wasn’t going to shatter into pieces before her very eyes. 

Thomas found himself caught in the details of her costume; her beaded neckline of jade and coral. Her hair-comb, silver…. He could remember imagining the opulence of Downton akin to something in a nickelodeon when he’d been in Wakefield. Here it was before his very eyes, and Lady Mary… 

Mary… 

Beautiful Mary. 

Thomas straightened up fully, and turned about so that he and Mary were facing one another. He noticed that she was holding a shawl about her waist, ends in each arm. The shawl featured a beautiful image of a greek nymph holding a bushel of grapes. It probably had cost a fortune. Maybe it was a gift from Mr. Talbot. 

Mary’s expression went slack for a moment, her eyes widening even more as she took in the state of Thomas’ scarred mouth. 

“Who did this to you.” She whispered, touching her hand to her mouth. 

“…A man in Wakefield.” Thomas realized that he wasn’t saying ‘M’lady’ at the end of his sentences, and wondered when he would be reprimanded for it. Mary pursed her lips, fingers still to her mouth. 

“Then for gods sake,” she gestured about, “Let’s press charges against him-“ 

“No!” Thomas exclaimed, realizing that he’d spoken far too quickly and brusquely for a lady of the gentry. He withdrew, rubbing a shaking hand over his cold brow. 

“I… I’m sorry, M’lady.” He finally forced out, eyes downcast in a show of physical submission. Christ he was getting loose in his game, he needed to pull himself together. “Only that, I’d just… rather get back into the swing of things.” and be bloody well left alone. 

“But this is—“ she didn’t seem to have the words. “Vile!” She finally decided, “This is horrific- the fact that someone would do something so disgusting.” 

Thomas shook his head and look away, trying to imagine that Lady Mary Crawley and Soames Barsette existed in the same universe. What the hell would he do if worlds were to ever collide. 

“Mary-“ Tom murmured reproachfully. Thomas noted that Mary seemed sorry for pushing. She flushed, pursing her lips and looking away. Thomas could remember looking just about the same when Kieran Branson had been so rude to her over not believing in God. Sometimes Mary could get ahead of herself- or rather, her mouth. 

“It’s just that I never want to speak to a policeman again.” Thomas added, hoping that it would help Mary feel more comfortable, “Ever.” 

“Very well.” Mary wrapped her shawl tighter about herself; Thomas noticed the beginning swell of a bump underneath her dress. She would be what… four months along now? “I can understand why, but I can’t stand the thought of letting this go unpunished. It just doesn’t seem fair.” 

Thomas tried to imagine Mary Crawley as his sword and shield; he doubted Soames Barsette would last the week. 

“I think it would be best if we respected Thomas’ wishes.” Tom warned. Mary shrugged, seeming to accept Tom’s word on this. 

“Have you come home to us then?” Mary asked. 

“Just for the night, M’lady.” Thomas stumbled over his words, unsure of what his plan still was. 

“Moseley will be thrilled to death.” Mary gave a small smirk, “He’s been sweating a storm since he was told he’d have to serve as butler for a day.” 

Thomas had a feeling she was right. 

“Will you see the children?” Mary asked, hopeful. Thomas looked over his shoulder, back out across the expanse of the western lawn. Christ was that the question of the hour. 

“I don’t want to frighten them-“ Thomas gestured to his mouth, bitter. 

“Stuff and nonsense!” Mary wouldn’t hear a word of it, “They’ll have to see eventually. For heaven’s sake, they’re beside themselves.” 

Tom nodded, in complete agreement. The pair of them were a solid wall of positivity that Thomas found rather hard to break. 

Thomas let out an exhaustive sigh, leaning heavily against the willow tree. 

 

They walked back to the house, the three of them oddly silent. It wasn’t uncomfortable or stiff; the pair of them simply belonged in the environment they were in. Downton was home to each of them in a different way, and so it did not feel abnormal for them to cross the lawn and head back up the gravel drive. Andy ran out to meet them, hands comically bouncing along at his sides. He stopped before Mary, offering her a thin spring umbrella, only to drop it when he saw Thomas’ face. Thomas grumbled, bending over to retrieve it, and dusted it off before holding it back up over Mary’s head. 

“Oh my god.” Was all Andy could think to say, staggered by the scars, “What have you been into?” 

“You’ll remember yourself in front of a Lady, Andrew.” Thomas warned him gently. Andy didn’t even have the common sense at this point to look ashamed, still staring at Thomas as if he was sporting a second head. 

“Please tell Mr. Moseley that I will be overseeing dinner tonight.” Thomas refused to answer his initial question. Andy just kept staring at him. 

“The others are gonna have a fit.” Andy finally said. 

“M’well aware. Please remember yourself in front of a lady.” Thomas said again. 

“You ought to go downstairs and see them, M-“ Andy stopped himself mid sentence, almost about to call Thomas ‘M’lady’. Thomas rolled his eyes, palming his forehead with his free hand. 

“Andrew.” Thomas sniffed, rubbing at the back of his neck before glaring at Andy full outright. Andy stiffened, sensing a threat, “Kindly remove yourself from the situation or remember that you are before a lady of the family…. Or I will make you remember.” Thomas growled. 

Andy paled, pursed his large lips, and took a step back in reproach. 

“Mr. Barrow.” Andy said, “M’lady.”   
He turned and left. 

“Heavens.” Mary said. They slowly resumed walking again, their pace calm. “That was a scene.” 

“I apologize, M’lady.” Thomas “Andrew is still learning.” 

“You don’t have to apologize to me.” Mary said loftily, “I quite enjoy it when things go askew.” 

“When things go askew, men like me get fired.” Thomas said. 

“I hardly do the firing.” Mary replied. To be fair she had a decent point. 

They returned to the front step, and were greeted by Andy who had resumed his post at the door. Thomas folded up the umbrella, setting it aside and allowing Andy to tuck it away while heading back into the entrance hall. God, how he’d missed this sight: the ancient greek pillars, the lush Persian carpet… Certain things were standing out to Thomas just like they had on the night of his arrest. He paused, noting the same random scuff upon the floor that he’d seen before. It must have come from footmen moving furniture. Maybe they’d slipped, or grown exhausted in their act. 

A hand on his waist jerked him back to reality, and Thomas started to see that Tom was right next to him, holding him from behind as if it were decent in public society. Mary didn’t seem to be watching. Didn’t seem to be concerned. Rather, she was staring up and ahead at the door to the main gallery where Lord Grantham was waiting. 

Thomas panicked, turning away from Lord Grantham to instead stare out the front door. 

“Drop your hand, drop your hand-!” Thomas hissed in Tom’s ear, and it was with greatest reluctance that Tom obeyed. Thomas put a hand to his mouth, fingers trembling around his lips as he hid his scars. He turned back around, bowing his head in bizarre penance to the Crawley family as Lord Grantham approached. He was not alone. Tia was in his arms, Lady Grantham at his side, and all three of them seemed pleased to see him. Mary seemed oddly pleased as well, as if the sight of her family coming together brought her bizarre pleasure. 

Thomas didn’t even know why he was doing this- holding his hand up to his lips. Lord Grantham had already seen his scars. 

“Ah, Barrow.” Lord Grantham said, “Come to captain the ship?” 

“For tonight, M’lord.” Thomas said, “I’ll return properly in a few days.” 

“Excellent.” Lord Grantham stroked Tia’s head. “Moseley will be pleased. Is your….. cat here?” Lord Grantham tilted his head to the left and right, as if expecting the Persian to stick her head out from behind Thomas’ shins. 

Thomas stared, slightly confused. 

“N-…No, M’lord?” Thomas looked to Tom, who was rolling his eyes. 

“Like Thomas would bring the cat here.” Tom warned. 

“You have a cat, Thomas?” Mary seemed intrigued. “I always wanted one but papa wouldn’t allow it.” 

“God no.” Lord Grantham said it as if it was akin to worshiping the devil or rooting for the village in a cricket match. “No, this house was founded on better principles.” 

Thomas glanced at Mary, who rolled her eyes. Lady Grantham stepped forward, clearly trying to set a better example. 

“Barrow, we’re so glad to see you returned to us.” She said. 

“M’lady.” 

She looked from Thomas to Tom, who bowed his head and touched Thomas’ protruding elbow with his fingertips. He silently bade Thomas to drop his hand, and Thomas did so with slight reluctance, allowing Lady Grantham to see his lips. 

She bristled, unnerved. “Oh… how awful.” She murmured. Thomas immediately brought up his hand again. 

“I apologize-“ Thomas said, but Lady Grantham cut his off. 

“Please, don’t apologize.” She said, “I’m sorry you’ve had to endure this Barrow. Have you gone to Dr. Clarkson?” 

“We went there the other day.” Tom said, “He removed Thomas’ stitches and gave us a cream to put on the scars. We didn’t like it so we ended up getting another one.” 

“And it’ll go down eventually?” Lady Grantham asked. 

“That’s the plan.” Tom said. 

“Best go downstairs and get back in the swing again-“ Lady Grantham decided, smiling as she gestured toward the far off green baize door. 

“But first the children.” Mary interjected. Priorities were priorities. 

“Yes, of course.” Lady Grantham agreed, “They’ll be so delighted to see him. But…” She looked slightly unsure, “Perhaps we ought to take this gently.” 

“We can’t hide the truth forever,” And even if they could Thomas had a feeling it wouldn’t be Lady Mary to do the hiding. 

“How true.” Tom agreed. 

The three of them headed into the Main Gallery, Lord and Lady Grantham falling behind. They were greeted halfway by Mr. Talbot, who seemed to have been waiting in a reclining chair by the door. He rose, and before being given warning was faced with the image of Thomas’ torn mouth. 

“Jesus hell-“ Mr. Talbot swore. Thomas stop dead, shocked into grabbing back at his mouth. Tom stopped him, glaring sulkily at Mr. Talbot. 

“Easy, Henry.” Tom demanded, “He’s only just gotten back, he doesn’t need you egging him on.” 

“I’m sorry-“ Mr. Talbot flustered, handsome features lightly coloring in an odd shade of embarrassment. “I just… Jesus it’s rough. What did he use, a razor?” 

“Oh for god’s sake.” Tom threw a hand up into the air, “Why don’t you just pour lemon juice on the wound and be done with it-“ 

Thomas broke away from the group. He headed up the main stairs, well aware of how unusual it was for a servant to scale the stairs of the family. Tom followed him up, with Mary and Mr. Talbot close behind, all three of whom were arguing. 

“I didn’t mean to be coarse, it just shocked me.” 

“You know what shocks me? How you live when you drive like a maniac.” 

“I drive like a perfectly functioning human being-“ 

“What functioning human being would have a cement block for a foot-“ 

“Look are you going to sit here and tell me you don’t like how I drive when you’re the one with your head hanging halfway out the window like a dog?” 

“Can we please stop arguing.” Mary begged, up to her neck with squabbling. They reached the landing and turned left, heading for the nursery at the far end. “The children might hear.” 

Tom and Mr. Talbot were still grumbling as they walked up the hall, Thomas and Mary leading the way. With every step Thomas took, he felt somehow invigorated and terrified all at once. It was the power of love, he assumed, for he’d felt the same way when he’d seen Tom again for the first time after Wakefield. Like he might vibrate to death or die of an exposure to massive emotion. After a lifetime of living in concrete, it was bound to kill a man. 

They reached the nursery door, and Thomas stopped, hand outstretched but not touching the nob. 

Should he conceal his scars? Should he not even try? What presentation should he show Master George? What courage should he display for Sybbie? 

Sweet Sybbie… after falling in love with Tom, Thomas now considered Sybbie a daughter. In a way, he had filled the bizarre parent role in her life just as Mr. Talbot had stepped in for Mr. Matthew. Neither of them had any true claim to the children they cared for… but the emotion was there, and that was what mattered. 

Thomas opened the door. 

 

There sat the children, playing quietly in the playroom while Nanny Armstrong kept watch from her fainting couch. She was working on embroidery, darning a new dress for Sybbie made of coral and peach. Both children looked up and around at the opening of the door, and when they saw him standing there a massive peal of noise erupted that could have been compared to the start of a house fire. 

“BARROW!” It was shocking how a child so compliant and quiet one minute could suddenly screw up and burst into tears the next, but Master George was wildly inconsolable as he abandoned his tin soldiers and ran headlong into Thomas’ legs. He didn’t get much time, grabbing onto Thomas’ calve and sobbing into his trouser leg for a split second before Sybbie realized who he was and came to join her cousin. Now Thomas had two howling children, each holding onto a leg and each wailing for attention. He almost fell over, stooping to grab at both of them so that pudgy hands were itching for his shirt, his vest, his neck- anything. 

It was with a remarkable feat of strength that Thomas did not know he possess which made Thomas pick them both up at the same time, one child on each hip as they clung to his neck and cried into his shoulder. 

“I thought I’d never see you again!” George moaned, hiccuping as Thomas repeatedly kissed the top of his blonde head. How Thomas had worried so about him- the sweet boy who had unknowingly saved him from despair with an orange and a kind word. His reason for living when all about him had been darkness. His perfect George. 

“They said you were in jail!” Sybbie was hysterical, “They said you were gone for good!” 

“Shh- shh.” Thomas bade her quiet before she drove herself to an anxiety attack, peppering her wet salty face with kisses to quiet her until both children were merely sniveling instead of crying. 

Nanny Armstrong had risen to her feet, shocked at the behavior of her charges. What was more, she was equally shocked to see him in the doorway, represented on either side by members of the family in odd standards of equality. She gaped at him, open mouthed, as she allowed her darning to be laid upon her seat. 

“It’s alright.” Thomas said, keeping his tone as soft and as calm as possible, “It’s alright. Everything’s alright.” 

Was it? God only knew- but Thomas was more than happy to lie. 

George and Sybbie were both pulling back, their faces wet and shiny but likewise clear of misery. They were exploring, the pair of them staring at Thomas with trembling lips and fingers as they touched his scarred mouth. Thomas kissed both their fingers, pressing kisses likewise to their forehead in an attempt to sooth them. 

It seemed to work for the moment. 

“What happened to your face?” Sybbie whispered. Behind Thomas in the doorway, both Tom and Mary were blocking the view into the hall as they gazed on their respective children lovingly. 

“I got hurt.” Thomas would put it no more detailed than that, “But I’m okay now.” 

“Will it go away?” George wondered, stroking Thomas’ scars. 

“No it will not.” Thomas told him, lips shifting around the tips of his pudgy fingers. 

“Will you go away?” George asked, fearful. 

Thomas gazed on him adoringly, wondering at his baby blue eyes, and blonde sleek hair. Like a little cherub- had there ever been such a handsome child? 

“No.” Thomas pressed another soft kiss to his forehead, lips lingering there as he spoke into his hair. George seemed to be soothed, eyes fluttering closed as he grabbed at Thomas’ cheeks. 

“No, I will never go away again.” Thomas swore, for if he was to ever be parted from this abbey or its inhabitants he would have to be beaten unconscious and dragged out. 

“I worried about you so.” Thomas blurted out, unable to stop kissing the pair of them. He wasn’t the only one to dose out affection, for Sybbie reached up and gently pecked at the corner of his mouth atop one of his rather bulging scars 

“In case it hurts.” She whispered.   
The perfect bandaid from the perfect nurse. Thomas nuzzled her affectionately. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Though Thomas would never tell Mary, or George for that matter, after George was settled back down in the nursery to nap (he needed one after all that crying) Thomas took Sybbie aside with Tom to comfort her in private. George was incredibly needy, probably because Mary took an off-hand approach to parenting, so when he was around Sybbie often had to be put on the back burner. 

Alone, Thomas could focus on her solely. 

In quiet atonement, Thomas and Tom walked down the gallery floor with Sybbie in Thomas’ arms. Alone, they were able to express themselves freely to her and devote their attention to her. Sybbie was more mature than George emotionally, more able to see the love between Tom and Thomas. She did not judge, she only wanted to know. To understand. 

Sybbie stroked Thomas’ scars as they passed through the green baize door, allowing her fingertips to trail up and down his cheekbones. 

“Are you to marry daddy now?” She wondered. 

“We can’t legally.” Tom said to her, keeping a hand on Thomas’ back as they went down the stairs, “But I assure you that if it were possible, we would.” 

“So are you my…mother?” Sybbie struggled to make sense of it. 

“I’m whatever you want me to be, my darling.” Thomas assured her. Sybbie thought it over for a moment, tilting her head to the side. Her brown eyes sparkled, reminding him of Sybil and how often she’d laughed and smiled during the day. 

“I want you to be my parent.” She decided. 

“Then I am your parent.” Thomas assured her, and sealed the deal with pride by placing the softest kiss onto her forehead. Sybbie leaned into it, laying her head upon his shoulder and holding him tightly around the neck. Thomas paused upon the stairs, hearing the chatter of the servant’s hall echo up. It wasn’t that he was afraid, only that… 

He just wanted to have a moment more with Sybbie. 

Thomas placed a hand upon her back, swaying too and fro as he kissed her chestnut hair. Tom kissed him on the forehead, smiling down upon his daughter and lover. 

For a moment the three of them were allowed their peace, laying into one another as Sybbie ran her hands through both their hair. Oddly in that moment Thomas felt more happy than when Mrs. Hughes and Mr. Carson had decided to adopt him. While having a parent had felt blissful…being a parent just felt right. 

He’d wanted parents, but he’d needed a child. And now he had one. 

They hit the bottom of the stairs, and Thomas hoisted Sybbie up a little better onto his hip. He paused just before turning the corner into the servant’s hall, looking up at Tom who was waiting patiently at his side. Tom gave him a small smile and took Sybbie from his arms. Sybbie went willingly to her father, watching with keen and observant eyes as Thomas took a second to smooth down his hair and clear his throat. 

“To the wolves we send the lambs.” Thomas muttered. 

“They’re hardly wolves.” Tom said. Thomas wished he could agree. He steeled himself for the gawping, the shrieks, and the dismay… he rubbed a bit at his mouth, feeling the scars. 

Fuck it, he survived the year after Jimmy. He could survive this. 

Thomas took a deep breath, cracked his neck, and stepped into the servant’s hall. 

 

It was quite full, given that afternoon tea was in full swing. Bates and Anna were holding center court around a half finished plate of crumpets, with Baxter and Moseley next to them holding hands. Catherine was there too, darning one of her Ladyship’s many lace collars. For a moment Thomas simply stared at them all, then was greeted by the marvelous display of Baxter spotting him and dropping her teacup so that it shattered upon the floor. The noise drew quite a bit of attention everyone looking up and around to see why she’d lost her composure. Baxter, however, was unavailable to comment. On her feet, she gawped at Thomas, her dark eyes misting over and her mouth falling open. 

Thomas coughed slightly, straightening the bottom of his vest. 

“Mrs. Baxt-“ Thomas got as far as the first syllable of her last name.   
That was all that was needed. 

Baxter wrenched herself from the company of her fellows, hurtling around Anna’s chair to collide forcibly with Thomas; she curled her fists into his hair, buried her face in his neck. 

Thomas could feel a wetness upon her cheeks. 

The others merely watched, all of them rising to their feet… silent spectators. 

Thomas could feel Baxter shaking. He paused, a hand poised precariously upon her back as he felt her shoulders tremble violently. His neck was growing more and more wet. 

“…. It’s okay.” Thomas bent his head low, speaking directly into her ear, “It’s okay, Phyllis.” 

He felt it imperative to use her first name. 

Phyllis tightened her hands upon his back and hair, sniffing. Her shoulder’s were still shaking. 

“…Phyllis." Thomas repeated her name, feeling a sense of urgency in getting her to stop crying in front of the others. Phyllis was withdrawn and quiet; she wouldn’t enjoy being seen emotionally. He pulled back a bit, forcing her to raise her face so that Phyllis’ tear streaked cheeks could finally be shown to him. 

Her eyes were blistered and bleary, a hot red. There were deep purple bags beneath her eyes, notices of restless sleep, and her brown hair was starting to fall into her face. He plucked at a rather thick strand, tucking it behind her ear. Phyllis sniffed, wiping haggardly at her face. Thomas would offer her his own handkerchief if it wasn’t already lightly stained with vomit. 

She looked up at him, dark eyes swimming as she reached to touch the corners of his mouth. So far, Tom and Sybbie were staying out of the limelight, hiding out just beyond the door to the servant’s hall. This moment was for Thomas and Phyllis alone. 

“It’s alright, Phyllis.” Thomas murmured. 

“I’m so sorry.” she whispered, fingers traveling over his scars. “When I heard… When I realized… oh Thomas-“ She bent her head in again, and held him as if she thought he would vanish. 

“We were so worried about you.” Phyllis finally said, pulling back again to reach up once more and hold his face, “We prayed for you. Every night. We prayed for you during dinner.” 

This didn’t surprise him. Carson was a fan of prayers before meals (like most Victorian men) and when Bates had been incarcerated he’d done the same thing. Still… it touched him. 

“Here I am.” Thomas said, as if by her word alone he’d re appeared.   
Maybe he had. 

Phyllis sniffed heavily, wiping her eyes again and again as tears continued to fall. 

“I feared I’d never see you again.” she admitted, her voice thick as if she was suffering from a head-cold. “Thomas I was so afraid for you. I was so afraid-“ she broke off, shaking her head. “I thought it was the end.” 

And suddenly Thomas thought of his cell in Wakefield again. Of its isolationism. Of its quiet. It made him momentarily weak, and he pulled back a bit to regain control of himself. Now was not a time to think of Wakefield. Now was a time to think of Sybbie, who was just outside the door and couldn’t see him cry. 

“Let’s not talk about that.” Thomas urged her. “I’m here now. I’m home now. Don’t cry anymore.” 

Phyllis desperately wiped at her face, pulling a handkerchief out from her sleeve to dab hastily at her eyes before turning back around to have her coworkers. 

Thomas paused, finally looking up at the others who were still staring at him on their feet. Bates, in particular, seemed captivated by Thomas’ scars. He leaned heavily on his cane, wary as if he expected Thomas to snap like some kind of deranged dog. 

“…Barsette.” Bates said. 

Thomas did a double take, blood draining from his face.   
What had he just said? 

“What did you just say?” Thomas knew that his anxiety would be evident upon his face. Bates did not seem surprised, indeed his morose expression only grew as if Thomas’ anxiety had solidified a fact for him. 

“Barsette did that to you, didn’t he.” Bates gestured with a soft swing of the hand. Thomas’ heart skipped a beat in his chest. Baxter looked from Bates to Thomas, shocked at the turn of events. “Soames Barsette?” 

“How…” Thomas caught himself, terrified to glance at Tom who he knew was still in the doorway with Sybbie. The last thing Tom needed was a name. “Where do you know that name from?” 

“Prison.” Bates would not shy away from it, though the word alone sent a cold sweat down the back of Thomas’ neck, “I remember him. He was known for mutilating inmates he didn’t like. I suppose you got on his bad side… Not that that was ever hard to do.” Bates admitted. There was an odd fairness in his voice, a tone Thomas had never truly known before. 

Tom’s expression was hardening, his eyes growing bright. Thomas licked his lips, trying to divert the conversation away. 

“If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather not speak about it.” Thomas said. Bates shrugged, once again exuding an aura of agreeability that confused Thomas deeply. 

“But you’re home now.” Bates carried on, leaning heavily with his cane, “That’s something.” 

Thomas pursed his lips. He didn’t know what Bates was trying to say (though he could stab at a guess) and really he didn’t want to hear it. To hear it would bring back massive emotion, and that wasn’t something Thomas was ready for after already vomiting in front of Mary and having to confront both Sybbie and George. 

“Mr. Moseley.” Thomas murmured, looking instead to the weedy man at Bates’ side. Moseley usually had a nervous air about him, but today he merely seemed… at peace. There was no venom in his expression as he stared at Thomas, and Thomas was unused to it. Jesus, what was wrong with everyone today? Was there something in the water? Had they all eaten bad oysters? “I’ll be holding dinner tonight. If you don’t want to stay, don’t feel that you need to. I’ll be able to manage.” 

“I’ll be happy to help anyways, Mr. Barrow.” Moseley assured him. At Thomas’ side, Baxter gave a watery smile. There was some weird harmony between the three of them that confused the living hell out of Thomas. He wanted to divert it as soon as possible. 

“As I say.” Thomas nodded, but before he could address anyone (or anything) else, a sudden brown haired bullet shot out of the hallway and collided with Thomas so that he was forced several paces backward into the chores cabinet beneath the bell set. He let out a loud ‘oof!’, all the air forced from his chest as Daisy hugged him tight around the lungs. Jesus hell she had a grip! 

“Thomas!” She cried out. The others tittered, amused by her sweetness. 

“Eh…” Thomas wheezed, desperately trying to get air back into his lungs. It was rather hard, “Daisy- Daisy.” He coughed out, “Thomas can’t breathe.” He was unsure why he referred to himself in third person. Either way it got Daisy to let go momentarily. 

But then she saw the state of his face, and panicked again. 

“What happened to you?!” Daisy gawped, grabbing at his face with both of her hands to clasp him like he was a goblet. She turned his face left and right, thumbing his scars. It was an incredibly intimate touch that Thomas was in no way ready for, and he flushed bright scarlet as Daisy grew more and more irate, “Who did this to you?!” 

“Does it matter?” Thomas wheezed.   
Yes, clearly it did. 

“We ought to tell the police! To take the man to court and have him hanged!” Daisy declared. But Thomas had come so close to being hanged himself that he suddenly went gray, remembering the night of his stabbing and how he’d been on a hanging scaffold. Barsette could have easily put a noose around his neck then and there. Who would have been able to stop him or help him? Thomas would have died that night, swinging like a limp bird at a market till morning when he’d be found by the flies and the guards. 

He swallowed, looking away. Daisy seemed to have realize that she’d touched on a sensitive wound, for the room had gone unusually quiet. 

“If it’s all the same to you…” Thomas murmured, coughing to try and regain some color in his face. His pulse felt weak in his wrists. “I don’t want to speak with a policemen ever again.” He paused to enunciate, “Ever.” 

“Oh…Thomas.” Daisy’s tone turned into a whimper, and suddenly she was hugging him again without the force of before. Her head fit snugly underneath his chin, so that she rested upon his shoulder as Thomas was left to burn with heated embarrassment under the titters of a sentimental room. 

“Alright. Alright-“ He muttered at long last, gently urging her to let go. Her gaze was watery but no tears had fallen, and she straightened up to fix his tie absent mindedly. “Enough with the sugar. Goin’ t’give me a cavity, you are.” 

Speaking of all things edible- 

“Ah!” Boomed a voice from the doorway, making Thomas jump. Mrs. Patmore had appeared from the kitchen, her hammish hands lightly dusted in flour. She strode to his side, though mercifully did not make to hug him. Daisy might be able to squeeze the air out of him but Mrs. Patmore could easily break him clean in half. 

“Look who it is!” She declared with bizarre pride. What was with everyone today? “Thank god you’re home. You had us worried sick!” 

“I’m alright-“ Thomas muttered, wishing he could wave everyone off and get them to act normally again. But normal stood no chance, as Mrs. Patmore reached forward and pinched at Thomas’ protruding collarbone to squeeze down on him so that he cried out instinctively. 

“Alright, do you call this alright, you’re so skinny I could snap you like a chicken0!” 

“Jesus Christ!” Thomas swore, jerking away from her touch to rub at his flaming skin, “You don’t have to prove it!” 

But there was no pulling away from Mrs. Patmore. She pulled him back to her side, speaking not only to him but to the room at large, “You’re eating well tonight! I’ll fatten you up in no time. We’re having your favorite: salted cod cakes!” 

Admittedly, he was fond of the dish. He found himself salivating just from the name of it. 

But Mrs. Patmore had caught sight of his lips and grabbed him shockingly by the face so that suddenly his lips were smooched together like a fish. He was limp in her grip, knowing himself defeated as she turned his head this way and that. 

“Well, it’s just about as Mrs. Hughes said.” Mrs. Patmore declared. Clearly she was already in the know. “Still it’s not too bad, and it’ll do good for your vanity I can tell you!” She made sure they were locked eyeball to eyeball now, “What the lord giveth, he taketh away in good time!” 

She let go of his face, only to smack him fondly on the cheek so that his skin stung. 

“…Thanks.” Thomas griped out, rubbing at his burning flesh. Christ he’d be bruised come morning. 

Anna stepped up, coming tentatively around the table. She looked upon him keenly, with misty eyes that alarmed him. She seemed ready to weep. 

“Thomas…” She said his name as if seeing him for the first time through new eyes. “The night you were arrested… you tried to protect my family.” 

Thomas took a moment to think back; how sure all of them had been that Sergeant Willas had come once again to raise hell for the Bates. Thomas shrugged. 

“It was the right thing to do.” Was all he could think to say. Anna’s eyes grew mistier still. 

“I prayed God would return you safely to us.” she admitted. “We all did, but…” Anna paused, “I feel I prayed more than any other at times. Every night before bed. Every morning when I woke. I felt surely he’d hear my prayer and send you home to us.” 

“He heard something.” Thomas agreed, for him standing in this servant’s hall was nothing short of a miracle. “… I won’t pretend I was hopeful.” He finally admitted. “I think I’d…” He shook his head, looking away. “I honestly thought I’d never see any of you again at times.” 

His words seemed to grip Anna emotionally. She came forward and took him around the chest, hugging him just as tightly as Daisy had done. Anna had never hugged him before and though it shocked him it also moved him so that he remained rooted to the spot unwilling to move her. 

Anna and he had known one another for a long time. Not as long as Phyllis but… long enough still. Longer than anyone else in the room. Anna had been the first one to greet him when he’d been initiated into Downton. The first to comfort him when anxiety had taken hold in his early years. The first to notice that he had a heart the night that Sybil died. 

And that stood for something. 

He drew his arms up, and held her back. A soft titter went through the room. 

“We worried about you so.” Anna said thickly into his neck. A warmth sprang up inside of Thomas’ chest, an ugly emotional thing that threatened to break loose and shake him unless he controlled it now. 

“His lordship is relieved to have you back.” Bates added. By god if he wasn’t smiling. 

What the hell was with everyone? 

“As are we.” Mrs. Patmore declared. Why was she smiling too? Why was everyone smiling? 

“Why are you all smiling?” Thomas managed to gripe out, though his voice was tight and his eyes were no doubt misting over as Anna continued to hug him, “Don’t get so used to being happy, you’ll be sick of me by the end of the week-“ he threatened.

“No they won’t.” Tom said, stepping out of the doorway. On his hip, Sybbie kicked her feet back and forth and gave Thomas a blissful grin. 

“We’ll never get sick of you.” Sybbie said triumphantly, “We love you!” 

“Right…well….” Thomas’ voice was too tight for his own good. He needed to shut down this reunion now if he was to stand any chance of dignity. He looked away, desperate to keep his eyes off of anyone’s face lest his final stronghold crumple and he burst into emotional tears. “That’s something.” He finally finished out. 

Anna let go of him, smiling. Thomas refused to look at her. 

He coughed, straightening the bottom of his vest again. All this hugging had left him rumpled. 

Sybbie leaned out of Tom’s arms and right into Thomas’. Thomas picked her up at once, allowing her to plant a rather wet kiss upon his cheek which resulted in a round of obnoxious tittering from the others. 

Thomas tried not to mind it. 

~*~

Dinner amongst the family that night was a rather quiet if not ceremonious in nature. There was no unbeknownst splendor with the meals, no insane candor to the setting or the flowers, but smiles were abounding and everyone at the table was incredibly smug. Tom most of all, feasting heartily and flashing Thomas looks of praise from where he stood behind Lord Grantham. Moseley and Andy helped serve that night, and the three of them seemed to be in bizarre tandem. Before, the air of hostility had always put a cold edge to their fluid grace. Tonight, however, there was warmth. If Thomas nodded his head, Moseley moved without reserve. If Thomas caught Andy’s eye, Andy passed around the serving platters with pride. It put a bizarre feeling into Thomas’ stomach that almost reminded him of the effect of soda water. Best of all, Sybbie sat at the table, delighted by the return of her second parent. When desert came around, Thomas caught Sybbie’s eye as she was given a rather large share of ice cream and winked. Sybbie flushed, grinning from ear to ear. 

As soon as dinner was over and the family took to coffee, Andy and Moseley helped the lone hall boy to carry all the serving trays back downstairs where the servant’s dinner was being prepared. Thomas did little more than serve coffee and brandy till Lord Grantham called it an early night, exhausted from the evenings heavy dinner. Tom gave Thomas the oddest look as Thomas headed back through the green baize door. Like he wanted to follow in after him and all the way to the ends of the earth. 

The feeling was mutual but there were rules. 

Back downstairs Thomas went, carrying with him the finished brandy and coffee tray so that Gertie could wash it up after supper. When he reached the bottom step, the smell of fried cod hit his nose like a heavenly wave. Best of all, William was now eating downstairs, able to sit up in a highchair between his mother and father with a bowl of mashed peas and carrots before him. Bates and Anna took turns feeding him and wiping his face clean, which to be fair was a two man job. William made more of a mess than he ate, but it put a jovial feeling in the air to have a baby at the table. As Mrs. Patmore sat round after round of food upon the table, everyone dug in (Thomas swept over evening prayers to instead have a round of gay chatter at the table). He had successfully eaten five cod cakes and was about to start on his sixth when a sudden scraping of chair legs caught his attention. Everyone was panicking, rising to their feet, and Thomas looked around to see Tom in the doorway 

Of course. 

Thomas rose with grace, his chair pushed back as he stared at Tom who flushed and waved his hands about. 

“For gods sake,” He urged, “Keep eating. I just came down to join, if I may.” 

“It’s most irregular, Mr. Branson.” Thomas put on his most ‘Carson’ like voice as possible. He wondered if stuffiness was contagious. 

“Oh, turning into Mr. Carson are we?” Tom grinned, leaning against the door to the hallway with his arms crossed over his chest. “Careful, or furry caterpillars will crawl up onto your eyebrows.” 

“I’m going to tell him you said that.” Thomas declared. Bates grinned, watching the interplay between the two men. 

“No you won’t.” Tom called him on his bluff.

“No, I won’t.” Thomas agreed, unable to deny it. He walked around the side of the table, grabbing a spare chair from where it sat next to the roaring fire, and drug it back about the table so that Tom was now placed squarely between Tom and Bates. Anna fetched a spare plate, passing it down the table so that Bates could set it before Tom’s chair, but Tom wouldn’t really be eating. After all, he’d already had dinner not half an hour ago. 

Tom sat down, and everyone else retook their seats. William was fussy, squabbling for more peas which Anna gladly gave. Thomas found it difficult to concentrate on his cod cakes or even on William when Tom was sitting next to him. 

Particularly when Tom was beaming at him like he was the sun incarnate. 

They were in danger of being obvious, even if everyone at the table probably already knew the truth. Tom decided to switch his attention from Thomas to William (an easy feat) and gushed at the infant who was mouthing around a spoonful of green peas till they were in danger of dribbling down his round chin. 

“Look who it is!” Tom declared, reaching out to tap William’s nose. He gushed, gurgling delightedly at the attention. He had Anna’s crystal blue eyes and Bates’ dark brown hair. “Wow you’re getting big.” 

“He’s got a healthy appetite.” Bates said proudly, shirt sleeves rolled up to reveal his muscled hairy forearms. It was a good thing he was taking precaution or he’d no doubt be covered in peas. 

“Will he eat downstairs from now on?” Tom asked Anna. 

“That’s what I want, yes.” Anna said, “He needs to know who his family is.” At this she swooped in on her son’s left, kissing him sweetly and loudly on the cheek. He promptly let out a squeal of delight, which caused many at the table to awe in warmth. 

“Speaking of family have you told them your news?” Tom asked Thomas. Thomas flushed, reckoning that Tom was referring to the fact that the Carson’s were now going to adopt him. Thomas doubted he would get a warm reception to the idea, so instead he pretended to feign ignorance, switching over to a much safer topic. 

“My news?” Thomas mumbled around a mouth of fried cod, “…I have a cat now.” 

“A cat?” Baxter demanded, taken aback. 

“Where did you get a cat?” Anna asked. 

“I got it in London.” Thomas said, sipping a large mouthful of decanted red wine that he’d brought out for the occasion of his dinner. “She’s a Persian. A lilac Persian.” 

“Her bottom teeth stick out.” Tom told the table, and just for effect he mimicked it with his own teeth so that several people laughed at the comical sight. 

“What’s her name?” Baxter asked, still laughing from Tom’s expression. 

“Moonpie.” Thomas said. Moseley’s expression scrunched up at this, perhaps having heard the name before. 

“Moonpie… do you mean like the biscuit in America?” Moseley asked. 

“Did you have one of those in London too?” Anna asked cheekily, feeding William another spoon full of peas. 

“No, but I do like the name.” Thomas said. 

They continued eating for a short bit, everyone partaking in the syllabub dessert that Mrs. Patmore had decided to bless them with. It was a rare treat, and even William got a tiny taste (though he spat it back out and made a weird expression). Halfway through the course of Syllabub, however, Mr. Bates leaned in across Tom to pluck a stray lilac hair from the arm of Thomas’ livery. 

“Mr. Carson won’t be pleased.” Bates said, flicking the hair away. Thomas had a feeling he was right, and decided he would be extra careful with his livery around Moonpie from now on. Perhaps he could change at the abbey and travel up to the house in his day clothes so as to avoid contamination completely. 

“I’m glad you brought him up.” Tom said, carefully stirring his spoon around his nearly empty syllabub cup, “Thomas has more news.” 

“And what would that be.” Bates took a sip of white wine. 

“Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes.” Tom said, looking to Thomas to finish the rest. 

“What’s this?” Baxter asked, glancing up from her wine and where she’d clasped hands with Moseley. 

Thomas paused, eyes lingering far too long over Tom’s face as he carefully fingered his wine glass. Tom was undyingly optimistic. Thomas was unfortunately pessimistic. 

He pursed his lips, only breaking the act to take another sip of wine. Now the entire table was watching him, noting how he refused to answer. 

Tom refused to stop staring at him. 

“Mr. Carson… has…” Thomas fished for the words though in truth they were undyingly obvious. 

Tom took over, tired of waiting for Thomas to bite the bullet. “Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes have decided to adopt Thomas.” Tom told the entire table, “He’s moving into their cottage.” 

“What?” Bates demanded; absolutely shocked. Thomas had never seen him so taken about. He looked close to laughing. 

“You’re joking!” Andy couldn’t seem to believe it either. 

“Blimey.” Moseley shuffled for words as he usually did when flustered, “That came out of left field.” 

Mrs. Patmore came into the servant’s hall, bearing with her a fresh gray for tea which she sat out only to take up everyone’s empty wine glasses and syllabub cups. Anna looked from Thomas to Mrs. Patmore, taking chance. 

“Mrs. Patmore, did you know that Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes had decided to adopt Thomas?” 

“I did.” Mrs. Patmore said, calmly placing the tray upon the jaunt of her hip.   
Thomas noted that Baxter looked pale and sweaty, as if about to be sick. 

“And you didn’t say anything?” Anna wondered. 

“Well,” Mrs. Patmore huffed, “Mrs. Hughes and Mr. Carson wanted me to keep it quiet until they’d talked it over with Thomas.” At this, she looked down at Thomas, beaming at him with bizarre pride. “And I see they have, and I hear you’ve agreed!” 

She reached out and pinched his cheek. Thomas winced, jerking away, “And I’ll tell you, Mr. Carson is delighted to have a son!” 

“That’s a disturbing thought.” Bates wondered. He poured himself a cup of tea, garnishing it solely with lemon. 

“I don’t think so.” Tom spoke up, causing most of the table to go quiet. It was odd, hearing his voice downstairs after so many years of having him above. It brought back a feeling of old times, “Mr. Carson is a good man, and he wants to be closer to Thomas. Mrs. Hughes desperately wanted a child, and now she’s got one that she’s going to smother to death.” 

At this, many people chuckled. Baxter, however, did not. 

“Are you going to change your name?” Baxter asked quietly. Thomas caught her eye and noticed that she seemed to be sweating slightly. Thomas wondered at what she might be thinking, having grown up with Thomas and knowing his family personally. 

Thomas noticed the table was now watching him avidly. Everyone was interested. 

“Yes.” Thomas murmured, reaching out to pour himself a cup of tea. His hand was shaking so badly he could not manage it. Tom’s hand shot out to guide his own, taking the teapot from him to pour him a cuppa. Thomas accepted it with wordless thanks, sipping it softly. The honey and lemon soothed his throat. 

“…And what about when your father finds out?” Baxter asked. 

“What are you planning on telling him?” Thomas snapped.   
The table fell oddly quiet, but not in a way that Thomas had ever known. Instead of that ugly tension which seemed to follow him around, the tables had now been turned on Baxter. Even Anna looked reproachful. 

“… I just don’t know if it’s right.” Baxter explained, “When you have a family of your own.” 

“I know I have a family.” Thomas said bitterly. “They’ll be back tomorrow, thank you very much.” 

“That’s the spirit,” Mrs. Patmore praised, patting Thomas heartily upon the back so that he almost coughed up his tea. “Mrs. Hughes has told me that you’ve been buttering her up. You’ve been as sweet as treacle on her.” 

Thomas felt like his face was on fire. 

“Don’t you have something you should be cooking?” Thomas mumbled into his teacup. 

“I’ll cook your goose if you don’t watch it.” Mrs. Patmore tittered, heading off with her tray. The animated chatter about the table was slowly returning, though Baxter did not look eager to partake now. 

Thomas caught her eye when she finally looked up again. 

“Are you angry?” He asked her pensively. 

Baxter seemed unsure of her answer. Moseley poured her a cup of tea, and as he did so she used the momentary lull to finally reply. 

“I’ve known your family for a very long time.” She finally said, “And I don’t think they’d be happy if they knew.” 

“Yes, but Mrs. Hughes is happy.” Thomas said. “And that, to me, matters more.” 

Beneath the table, where no one could see, Tom reached out and took his hand in his own. Their fingers interlocked, sweaty but comfortable. 

Even Baxter seemed satisfied with that answer. 

~*~

As soon as supper was over, Thomas locked up the house and headed back towards home on the dark trail to the Carson’s cottage. He was already growing emotional at the thought of his own bed. Of Moonpie waiting for him and yowling. 

Thomas felt good about leaving Tom at the house. He had a feeling that Mrs. Hughes would not be happy knowing that Tom was sleeping with him when she wasn’t around. At the same time, however, he could not help but feel horribly lonesome about the whole experience. In truth he’d dreamt often of Tom’s love in Wakefield. The vision he’d once had of resting in a pomegranate seed and being a fairy in Tom’s hand had stayed with him even after Barsette’s cruel attack. 

Pebbles crunched underfoot as Thomas continued to walk in the night, thinking of the sensual dreams he’d once laid claim to. In earlier times he’d been captivated by men like Phillip or Jimmy, and who could blame him? Even now, Thomas knew that Phillip had been suave… that Jimmy had been beautiful. 

But Tom was brave and true…. and Tom lay captive to Thomas’ soul. 

A sudden roaring of tires and engine in the night caused Thomas to look around, carefully stepping back off the dirt road for whoever was passing by. 

But of course, it was only Tom. 

Thomas scoffed, turning back around and continuing walking on up the way as if he could not hear or see Tom coming. Tom pulled up right beside him in the car, out of his white tie and back into a simple day suit without a jacket. He even had a valise beside him on the passenger seat. 

“Hello beautiful.” Tom declared, “Fine night for it.” 

“Do I know you?” Thomas teased, feigning ignorance to keep walking. Tom scoffed, jutting forward so as to swerve sharply to the right and cut Thomas off from walking any further. 

Thomas made a fake noise of irritation, hands on his hips. “Excuse you!” He snorted. “I don’t know what kind of a lady you think I am but I won’t be taking a ride from a stranger. My mother wouldn’t like it.” 

Tom laughed outright, sliding a bit in his seat to open the passenger door from the inside and push it out. 

“In y’get.” He ordered.   
Thomas rolled his eyes, but did as he bade. 

 

Thomas felt good, locking up the cottage that night. He double checked the front and back door, making sure that the fire was out and the windows were all down before heading upstairs with Tom. Tom wanted to bathe, and Thomas laid out on the bed while he waited his turn in the lavatory. Images from the evening kept dancing through his head: of the children embracing him, the others welcoming him, and of little William in his high chair with peas all over his chubby face. When Tom finally returned with nothing but a towel about his waist, Thomas had to abandon ship to keep from breaking Tom’s promise to Mrs. Hughes. He took his time in the bath, scrubbing at his hair till it was thick with white foam before submerging himself totally underwater. He felt oddly like a mermaid for a moment, hair swimming about his face and water covering his skin. When he resurfaced he gasped for air, coughing a bit as he pushed wet strands out of his eyes. 

He returned to the bedroom to find Tom in nothing but a pair of pants, relaxing in bed under the sheets. He seemed to be dozing, and jerked a bit in bed when Thomas re entered wearing only a towel about his waist. A habitual need for neatness drove Thomas to pick up Tom’s discarded towel from the floor to fold it over his footboard. He turned to fish through his bureau, thinking to find pajamas. Tom, however, had other ideas. 

“C’mere.” Tom urged. Thomas looked shyly over his shoulder, noting that Tom had a very sly grin upon his face. 

“Why?” He asked, demurely. 

“Cause I said so.” Tom replied, a rather haughty answer indeed.   
Thomas casually slid his bureau drawer shut, coming to stand by the bed with his arms crossed over his chest. Tom was looking him up and down, clearly admiring him and the way the light from his bedside lamp fell across his muscle plains. Tom sat up a bit better in bed till he was resting against the headboard, reaching up to gently trace Thomas’ pectorals. 

He took the top of Thomas’ towel and pulled it loose from where it had been wrapped smugly about his waist. It fluttered to the floor, and was left there in a heap at Thomas’ feet. 

Thomas expected for Tom to all but leap on him after nearly two months of forced abstinence. Instead he found Tom pondering him, quiet as he instead only used the tips of his fingers to touch Thomas’ body. Up and down, left and right, he didn’t seem to have a pattern or a plan. Thomas could no deny the scant touches ghosting over his body were slightly arousing. Bared nude by the lack of a towel, Thomas’ soft cock slowly began to stiffen, turning a slightly darker color as blood began to flush into the head. Tom watched, a lazy smile blossoming upon his face as Thomas’ member twitched. 

“What are you doing?” Thomas asked. 

“Memorizing you.” Tom said. He kept a hand on Thomas’ stomach, his thumb almost dipping into Thomas’ belly button. “When we’re old and done in, I’m gonna be able to remember you just the way you are now.” 

Tom drew him in. Thomas sat on the edge of the bed, and leaned in so that Tom could nuzzle his damp hair. 

Thomas reached up to hug him, and suddenly somehow Tom was pulling him onto his lap, their skins separated by the duvet. Then they were rolling, and Tom was atop Thomas with the duvet wrapped between them like an ’S’. 

When Tom kissed him, he did so with gusto and sexual candor. It was lustful, how his tongue filled Thomas’ mouth and pillaged him blind; his muscles contracting and bulging as he wrapped Thomas up tight. The smell of sweat, the hint of salt, and that musky undertone that had always struck Thomas as ‘man’… all of it was encompassed in Tom. Perfume companies made their fortune off of helping other men hide their scents, but Thomas aligned Tom’s natural scent to something from heaven. An aphrodisiac. 

“I love you.” Thomas whispered in Tom’s ear, overcome as Tom began to suck and nibble at his neck, “I love you so much, Tom.” 

Tom was losing himself in lust. 

He struggled and kicked, shoving the duvet off from between them. Tom grabbed at the hem of his pants, shucking them and kicking them to continue plundering Thomas’ neck raw. His cock was stiffening between their stomachs, heavy and hot with blood filling the bulbous head. Tom was grabbing Thomas’ back and hips, hauling him up onto the pillows bit by bit till Thomas was positioned better on the mattress. Thomas knew where this was heading; fear was picking up in his heart. Fear of being found out, of being dragged back off to Wakefield— 

“Wait- wait-“ Thomas begged. Like a gentleman, Tom pulled off at once, gazing concernedly into Thomas’ eyes even with swollen lips and cock evidence of his desires. Thomas swallowed nervously, shimmying his way back up on the mattress so that Tom sat up on his thighs. He gently stroked the divet of Thomas’ hip, running his thumb back and forth under the shadow it made. 

“This is how it all started last time.” Thomas could not deny his anxiety now, heart pounding in his breast. He wondered if Tom could see the fear in his eyes, “What if it happens again? What if someone walks in on us again? What if—“ The idea of Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes finding him in this position made him sick to his stomach, “God what if Carson and Mrs. Hughes see us— I can’t lose them Tom, I can’t go back to Wakefield— I can’t do it—“ 

Tom reached forward and carefully placed his hands upon Thomas’ cheeks, stroking them rhythmically till Thomas’ rant shuddered to a stop. 

“Thomas.” He whispered, honey brown eyes so warm and invigorating, “Thomas, we’re safe.” He leaned in and kissed Thomas on the forehead at this, no doubt feeling the tiny pants of Thomas’ breath on his cheek and neck, “We’re safe.” He just kept repeating the words, kissing him over and over again. He climbed off of Thomas’ legs, shimmying up alongside Thomas to take him in his arms where he held Thomas tight. Thomas momentarily lost himself in the strong beat of Tom’s heart beneath his firm breast. 

“No one’s here but you and me.” Tom took Thomas’ hand from where Thomas had lain it over his pectorals, and curled his fingers to kiss his knuckles one by one. Their legs were intertwined, forming them into one solid body by the end of it. “We’re safe.” 

“We’re safe?” Thomas wondered. Could such things really be true? 

“Mhmm. We’re safe.” Tom whispered, chin atop his head so that he could murmur directly into his ear. His breath sent shudders through Thomas’ body, the silky Irish timbre of his tone making him dream of flesh colliding. “This is your room in your house… and we’re all alone in the middle of the English countryside. No one can find us or hurt us here.” 

God, how it hoped it were true. 

When they kissed this time, it was without the reserve of before. Thomas allowed himself the liberty to believe that (even if just for a few moments) he was utterly and entirely safe. The result was that his passions exploded from him, making him grip Tom’s hair painfully tight as Tom ravaged his mouth. 

Tom pushed his cock up into Thomas’ stomach. Again and again, he pressed his hips into Thomas’, allowing the sensation to build until a humid sensation was causing their skins to cling together. It was like the pair of them were melting. Shifting. Merging. 

Tom was in his ear, breathing raggedly as Thomas clung to him for dear life. He felt like he’d been cast out on a sea of sensation to drown in a whirlpool of skin. 

“I heard Bates say his name.” Tom groaned, “I heard him- Soames Barsette-“ 

With his arm slung beneath one of Tom’s own, Thomas cupped his mouth so that his own fingers were digging into his lips, cramped for room. As he kept his silence, he kept Tom close. 

God could it be that Tom would remember the man’s name? Would this be the start of their second misery? 

“Is that his name?” Tom was in his ear, huffing and puffing as he pushed Thomas into the mattress, “Tell me-“ 

Thomas found himself wishing to god that the entire day had gone differently, as lovely and pleasant as it had been. Anything to keep Tom from knowing the truth about Barsette. Thomas found himself in the same shocking position as Anna Bates, knowing the love of his life would willingly commit murder if given a good enough reason. The knowledge of it petrified him. He felt his face screwing up beneath his fingers, a mixture of misery for his love of Tom and his terror for Barsette. 

Tom seemed to realize he’d made a mistake, too wrapped up in his passions for love making to keep his mouth filtered. He kissed Thomas repeatedly, dragging his hand away from his mouth to tenderly caress his lips between his own. Thomas shook his head, whimpering. He tried to block out Barsette’s vile face from mind, but God was it hard. 

“No- he can’t hurt you.” Tom beseeched, “I swear, it’s okay-“ 

“Don’t.” Thomas begged him, momentarily rendering Tom speechless as he waited with baited breath to know what Thomas would say next. “Don’t do anythin’ to him-“ Thomas hitched a breath as his cock lined up perfectly with Tom’s their glans slipping past one another “Don’t hurt him- He’ll kill you-“ 

“I swear to you.” Tom pressed his face tight to Thomas’ own, their noses sliding just like their penises. The pair of them were pressed from tip to toe, so that Tom’s breath on his cheek was just as life giving as his own, “Someway, somehow, _legally_ -“ he stressed, eyes boring into Thomas’ own, “I will get my revenge. And do you know what else I’ll do?” 

Thomas was slightly afraid to find out, “N-n-no?” 

“I will love you.” Tom whispered, drawing back on his arms so that he could kiss him ever so cautiously upon the forehead. It was like Tom was christening him. “Well. All my life. And damn that bastard with each-“ he kissed Thomas’ left cheek, “Kiss-“ he kissed his right cheek, “I give.” 

He kissed him on the lips, and Thomas’ swooned. 

“Say you’re mine-“ Tom puffed into his ear, grinding his cock against the divet of Thomas’ hip. Thomas hooked a leg around Tom’s waist, giving him more room to press and push. 

“I’m yours.” Thomas said, but it wasn’t enough. It was too weak, too simple. He needed more, he needed to prove himself. Thomas hitched his leg up higher on Tom’s waist, and then pushed hard so that they suddenly were rolled. Thomas flattened Tom to the bed, straddling his waist as he grabbed Tom’s hands and pushed them high up onto the pillows. He panted, laboring to keep Tom still as Tom rocked his hips upward. 

“I am yours in every which way,” Thomas said, “I am yours until the day that I die. I am yours, Tom Branson, I am yours.” 

Tom was oddly silent, staring at Thomas with a coy grin. Then, without much pressure, Tom wriggled his left hand free of Thomas’ light grip so that he could reach up to the bedside lamp and turn it on. The room was suddenly flooded with golden light, and Thomas instinctively looked over his shoulder as if expecting someone to be there. They were completely alone. 

“What are you doing?” Thomas asked. 

Tom’s smile grew darker, a sort of cynical twist though it remained loving at its corse. “I want to see you.” Tom whispered. At this, he shifted upon the pillows, and Thomas had to momentarily scoot lower so that Tom could relax against the headboard. Tom’s hand, which up until now had been resting somewhere between the bedside table and the edge of the bed, reached up once more to gently finger the lid of a small jar of natural face cream Thomas kept by his bed in place of the Erasmic. The little bee, engraved on its copper lid, gleamed in the light of Thomas’ small lamp. 

“I want you to ride me.” Tom said, causing wild flip flop actions to sound off in Thomas’ stomach at the mere thought, “An’ I want to see you lose yourself to ecstasy.” 

Losing himself in ecstasy made Thomas incredibly nervous. If he dropped his guard, how was he to protect himself or Tom? Sure, they were in the Carson’s cottage and yes it was in the rural English countryside… but the threat was still there. The threat would _always_ be there. 

“S’not safe.” Thomas said, eyes lingering on the jar of face cream in Tom’s open hand. 

“I’ll protect you.”   
There went those stomach flops again. 

Thomas watched, breath quickening as Tom took the lid of the face cream and popped it off, placing it on the bedside table. He palmed a generous amount in his hands, the lotion smelling softly of lavender It was slippery, slowly disintegrating in Tom’s hot palm as he coated his fingers till they gleamed like brass. Thomas swallowed, looking over his shoulder to where his backside resting upon Tom’s lap. Knowing what Tom would want to do— what surely must be done— Thomas slowly rose up onto his knees and placed his hands upon the headboard for balance. His lean profile cut a dark shadow across Tom’s face, illuminating his own so that the profile of his nose and the whites of his eyes gleamed. 

“Tom-“ Thomas glanced at the window, wondering if someone might see a shadow of their lovemaking through the curtain, “We should turn off the light.” 

“Shh…” Tom cut him off, soothing his fears.   
Thomas felt the anxiety within him slowly begin to crumble, not disappearing entirely but turning into a manageable threat. If he just didn’t think about it- if he just lost himself to the sensation- 

“Oh-“ Thomas let out a soft breath, eyes fluttering closed as Tom slowly inserted his middle finger. The burn was familiar, the ache dull, and Thomas was momentarily silent as Tom began to quietly prepare him. Tom had talked about wanting to see Thomas ride him, but Thomas couldn’t do anything that flagrant just yet. He wanted to stay still and …. be. 

Just be. 

“You’re so beautiful.” Tom whispered. Thomas barely heard him through the buzzing in his ears. “I wish you could see yourself through my eyes. See how beautiful you are.” 

Thomas was sure Tom was exaggerating, but he’d leave that battle for another day. There were three fingers inside of him now, stroking his inner channel- from time to time they became four as Tom prepared him. 

Thomas shuddered, slowly opening his eyes to spy at the jar of face cream on his bedside table. He reached for it, fingers trembling from the sensation that kept spiking inside of him… like his blood had turned to electricity and was frying in his veins. It took him two tries to reach into the jar and scoop out some of the cream. When he did he had to close his eyes again, fishing blindly in the dark for Tom’s erect cock between his widened legs. 

He found it after a moment, and began to pump Tom’s cock. His fingers seemed with liquid both warm and cold, a mixture of pre-come and face cream that easily prepared Tom for the job ahead. 

“C’mon.” Tom whispered. Thomas opened his eyes again, cheeks flushed to find Tom’s mouth slack with yearning. His fingers had slipped away, coming to rest upon Thomas’ hips so that he could pull at the globes of his arse. “C’mon baby.” Tom whispered. 

Thomas knew what he wanted. 

He took his hands and dropped them from the headboard, letting them slip down till his fingers were upon Tom’s shoulders. They trembled there in light anticipation as Tom pushed him lower and lower in a commanding…….grip….. 

Thomas hissed, head falling back on his shoulders as his mouth opened wide.   
_Oh_ , how he’d missed this. 

“Don’t be afraid.” Tom was saying, even as Thomas’ head rolled right on his shoulder and his eyes sagged open. He was almost lost in the dizzying sensation of being filled by another man’s cock. This. _This_. How he’d needed _this_. 

To belong. To be whole. To be safe. 

“I’m here.” Tom let go of Thomas’ hip with one hand, and placed it (for some odd reason) upon Thomas’ stomach. There, deep inside of Thomas’ body, Tom’s cock was buried to the hilt. It was like Thomas was being pressed flat between the two forces. Like Tom was merging with Thomas’ being. “I’ve got you.” 

A voice in the back of Thomas’ head reminded him of what fantasy he was supposed to be filling. With knees placed squarely on either side of Tom’s narrow hips, Thomas took a deep breath and began to rock. Jesus god he could have wept for the feeling shooting within him! 

Back and forth, back and forth, Thomas could not help but moan aloud as he gripped Tom’s shoulders even tighter. 

“There ye go-“ Tom’s accent was slipping, turning more rustic in a sure sign of his growing arousal. “Oh that’s it—oh!” He gasped as Thomas rocked even harder against his hips. His shadow was dancing upon the wall, going up and down. Thomas was hypnotized, a nymph under a sexual spell. It only spurred him on, made him rock faster and harder as Tom’s grunts became full outright moans. Moans turned into laughs, soft tickling things that made Thomas’ soul dance with joy as Tom reached up and cupped his face with both hands. 

“Moan for me.” Tom begged, cock thrumming a beat in Thomas’ channel. 

“No.” Thomas hissed through clenched teeth. 

“Moan-“ 

“S’dangerous-“ 

But Tom wouldn’t take ‘no’ for an answer. He dropped his hands from Thomas’ face, grabbed at the globes of his arse to pull them apart, and began to buck up into Thomas with such gusto that Thomas had no choice but to cry out. Tom was fucking the life out of him! 

Thomas grabbed at the headboard, sweat dripping from his chest and arms as he was ravaged by Tom. Tom was grinning blissfully, his face bright red from the exertion. 

“Thank you very much.” Tom quipped, punctuating each word with a wild thrust. Thomas cried out again, blinded momentarily by the impact of a jut to his prostate. 

“You bastard!” 

“Aww, such a potty mouth, someone will think you’re Irish.”

“I’ve- been-called-worse-“ Thomas huffed. 

Tom reached up and, pushing his fingers through Thomas’ sweaty hair. God, Thomas could barely think coherently anymore the pleasure was so terrific. Each strike hit his prostate. Each bounce of his hips made his erect cock smack into his stomach. The double load of sensations was overcoming him, making him lose himself-! 

“Oh-“ Tom groaned at the sight of a bubble of precum sliding from the tip of Thomas’ penis. “I love you. God I love you. Oh- oh!” 

“Tom-!” How the fuck was Tom so articulate? Thomas could barely get out single syllables. 

“Thomas, you beautiful creature-“ Tom hissed through gritted teeth, focusing all his efforts now into fucking Thomas raw, “You’re my dream.” 

“Tom-!” Thomas cried out louder, breathing raggedly. “I love- I—“ 

“I love you my darling-“ Tom could barely speak, his face was red and his eyes screwed shut, “I love you so much-“ 

And it was the fact that Tom would protect him, that he was safe (and the fact that honestly he’d never really been safe before) which made Thomas come. He screamed out, unable to hold it in as his passage clenched tight and his cock spurted with semen. It rolled over the head of his glans dripping down his shaft, pearly white turning almost see through; Thomas shook like a leaf. 

Tom’s eyes were glazed, his face flushed. He reached up with slow trembling fingers to touch Thomas’ hyper sensitive cock. He collected a dollop of cum upon his finger, and brought it up to Thomas’ face as if for him to inspect. 

“Taste it.” Tom said.   
Thomas’ eyes widened in shock. He shook his head, slightly dazed. What- he couldn’t- no. 

No, that was just nasty. He wasn’t doing that-

“Taste the joy you make.” Tom said. 

“You do it.” Thomas muttered.   
And by god if Tom didn’t lick the cum right off his fingers. Jesus he was a sexual beast. Thomas was ready for a second orgasm at this point. 

The energy was leaving him, ebbing away like a tide from the shoreline. He sagged, exhausted; his cock was beginning to droop till it touched Tom’s softened belly. 

He let out a breath, then another one, and found himself falling forward. He wasn’t passing out- nothing of the sort… he just wanted to lay down. To be still. 

Tom’s cock slipped out of him as he rolled down and onto his side. He lay still, cushioned by the pillows and the mattress. Tom was more energetic than he (Thomas could not fathom why), so he somehow summoned the strength to both turn off the bedside light and fetch the duvet from the bottom of the bed. He pulled up first by his toes, then by his fingers, and pulled Thomas to his side so that the pair of them were sweating bullets together. 

It was strange, it ought to repulse him to be dripping in someone else’ sweat but honestly to Thomas if felt almost cleansing. Like once again he and Tom were merging. 

He supposed that was what it really boiled down to in the end, as he lay in the dark breathing into his lover’s neck: Merging. Maybe that’s what he’d been lacking from the start, the ability to merge with someone and know a connection with another human being. He’d been so jealous of Bates, of Carson… of anyone with love in their heart and their lives. He’d thought it beyond him, like he was infected with some virus that made him immune to emotion. 

But here he was, in Tom’s arms, wrapped up tight. He was connected. Whole, sane, home. 

 

So clearly… he’d been wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you have any complaints or concerns, please feel free to post a comment. I read them all.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [I Want To Be](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6229015) by [geneticus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/geneticus/pseuds/geneticus)




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